Bulb
by Minerva Solo
Summary: AU CrawfordYohji. Yohji Kudoh might be one of the best PIs in the city, but he's also one of the poorest after a tangle with a certain Takatori business. Just fixing an uploading error.
1. Prologue

Bulb 

_A/N: Why, I do believe this is going to be my first AU. How unexpected. And why am I writing another multipart when I'm still not done with OUAN? Anyway, very inspired by my current desktop wallpaper (Phillip Marlowe) and "A Detective Story" in the Animatrix. It's not quite a what if; Yohji's never joined Weiss because Asuka never died. Doesn't mean she's in the fic though ^_^ Traditionally PI stories are written in the first person, but I've got too much to work into this to get away with anything other than Third Person Omniscient._

_Pairings: Brad/Yohji, Brad/Hirofumi (because you don't find that one often)_

Prologue 

The broken light held his attention for a brief second as he cast his gaze around the room. It was a strange thing to leave broken, this glass and wire contraption. The remains of the bulb crunched underfoot as he approached the scratched desk.

"Kudoh Yohji?" he asked.

"One and only," the blond man tilted his hat and leant back on his chair. "What can I do for you?"

"I want you to find someone. I hear you're good for that kind of thing."

"Better than most of the chumps in this city, yeah. Anyone in particular?" the investigator smirked and lit a cigarette. "Smoke?"

"Only when I'm on fire."

"Very droll," Kudoh laughed easily.

"I want you to find my younger brother. He was kidnapped several years ago, and the police have him down as dead."

Kudoh's eyebrows disappeared under his hat. "Woah. Police business? I don't do police business, kid."

"I can pay handsomely."

"I don't doubt it." Yohji gave the client along up-and-down look, taking in the expensive suit. "But I don't take payment until completion, and if the police say the kid is dead..."

"How very moral of you," the young man smirked. He tossed two photos onto the worn leather inlay of the desk. Yohji studied them closely. He wished he had that equipment you always saw on the cop shows, the machine that showed you what a person might look like ten years down the line. Sure, there was more than a faint chance that it was the same kid, but something still smelt funny. "You just happened to have a camera with you?"

"As a matter of fact, yes."

"This really is police business, Takatori-san. I suggest you go to your uncle for help," Yohji sighed and sat back. He couldn't believe he was turning down what might be the biggest business he'd had since Asuka left him for that Kase guy.

Shock registered on the young man's face. "How did you know?" he asked.

"Takatori Hirofumi, don't you think you're one of the most recognisable men in the country?" Yohji cocked an eyebrow at him. "Besides, this picture's been in and out of the media more times than I've been in and out of women."

The young man laughed shortly at that. "My father would not approve of what I am doing," he said, leaning on the desk. "And _that_, I assure you, will not be in and out of the media."

"I hear he's running for president," Yohji held his stare with the edge of a professional. 

"I want you to find my baby brother," Hirofumi said bluntly. "I know he is alive. Succeed, and you will be rich. Fail, and you will be dead."

Yohji's eyebrows disappeared beneath the brim of his hat. "I suppose there's a time limit, in that case?" he managed.

Hirofumi stood up straight and seemed to consider this. "I don't know much about these things. Of course, should he get wind of what you are doing he might flee. Maybe his kidnappers still have him, and might kill him."

"I can't make an estimate on how long it will take without knowing more about what is going on. I'll also need a bit of cash to start investigations. You don't get information on a wink and promise," Yohji told the politician.

"My father has loaned me the use of his bodyguards. I shall assign one of them to work with you," Hirofumi decided. "He can determine if you are not putting your all into this."

"How long will you have these bodyguards?" Yohji asked.

"I don't know," Hirofumi smiled slowly. "In much the same way you don't know how long it will take to find Mamoru. Let us say that if you haven't found my brother by the time the guards are recalled, I will have you killed."

Yohji swallowed. "Aren't you concerned they will inform your father of what you are doing?"

"You don't know much about politics, do you?" Hirofumi smirked. "I will send someone here tomorrow at Nine. Good Evening."

The broken bulb crunched underfoot. Yohji stared at the doorway in the fading evening light. Who had claimed that being a Private Investigator was glamorous? Dashiell Hammet and Raymond Chandler owed him a hell of a lot.


	2. Chapter One

Chapter One 

Yohji was both hungover and asleep when Crawford entered the unlocked office. He wasn't surprised it was unlocked. Not even the most desperate thief could find anything to steal here, unless it was Kudoh himself, who might be worth a pretty penny as a prostitute.

The shards of light bulb crackled underfoot and Yohji opened an eye.

"So you're the bodyguard?" he grunted.

"Yes," Crawford said shortly.

Yohji's eye trailed down his body, pausing just below Crawford's waist. "Big," he said in muted admiration.

Crawford glanced down. "I'm licensed to carry it," he said, fingering the revolver tucked into his belt. He was rarely so overt, but he'd known that Kudoh would be the type to respond to a big weapon.

Crawford watched the smirk develop with dismay. So he was _that_ kind of guy. Kudoh tilted his hat back and met his eye.

"Doesn't even need saying," he chuckled.

"You don't seem to be putting a lot of effort in to this case just now," Crawford said, stepping up to the desk.

"Sure I am," Yohji slurred slightly. "Sleeping on it."

The metal of the revolver left a cold circle on the underside of his chin.

"If only I could find an alarm clock that worked so good," Yohji commented as he sat up. "Or a hangover cure. Might have to keep you around." Crawford put the revolver in his shoulder holster and Yohji watched it disappear smoothly, without even ruining the line of the specially tailored jacket. "Got the cash?" Crawford dropped an envelope on his desk. "Got a name?"

"Mr Crawford," Yohji was told. He gestured to a seat and the stranger sat down. 

"Well, as you probably know, I'm Kudoh Yohji." He counted the wad of bills in dismay. Not nearly enough. Still, the man sitting next to him seemed competent. He'd understand the need for more money. He looked like the kind of guy who really understood the lure cold hard cash could have on a certain class of men. "Haven't worked with a partner for a while," Yohji went on, mentally going over his list of contacts. "It's easier with two, though. My last partner ran off with an ex J-leaguer." It had been almost ten years since the kid had gone missing. "Guy's involved in some business that makes a mint." He was perched on some kind of moped with a company logo on the side, but the angle was such that Yohji hadn't been able to make it out from the picture. "Some women are just about the money, you know? Still, never figured her for one of them." Hopefully this Mister Crawford would have a bit more information for him to go on. He still had the pictures, provided he hadn't left them in the bar. Damn, he hadn't, had he? "Broke my heart, that girl, but that's life, I guess. Broke the bank, that's for sure."

"Do you have _anything_ relevant to say?" Crawford asked coldly.

"Yeah. Got anything else for me to go on? So far I've got a single photo." Yohji dug in the drawer and, thank god, produced the picture.

"It was towards the north," Crawford told him. "Two weeks ago today."

"Not enough," Yohji said bluntly.

"This isn't supposed to be easy," Crawford sneered. "I thought you were supposed to be good."

"I thought Mamoru was supposed to be dead," Yohji countered. "Trail's gone a little cold, you know?"

Crawford sighed. Wonderful, an amateur. He'd tried to tell Hirofumi that he'd got more chance of finding his brother on his own, but Hirofumi had insisted on sticking him with this clown. It was insane. Schuldig and Nagi had the abilities between them to find the kid in less than a day. This way was going to take months.

On the other hand, Hirofumi had been quite enthusiastic about the idea of killing the PI if he failed. Kudoh had probably pissed him off in the past, Crawford decided, and this was Hirofumi's twisted way of getting his own back. Send him on a wild goose chase then have Crawford shoot him. But then, why was Crawford being forced to go on the goose chase too?

He stared around the office in distaste. Broken light, peeling wallpaper, scratched desk, rusting typewriter. He hadn't even known typewriters could rust. Oh, and the suitcase tucked behind the dying pot plant implied the sap actually lived here. God only knew where he slept. Probably in the chair Crawford had found him in on entry. Only someone so young could get away with that without having to employ a chiropractor on site.

Kudoh was going through the money again. Maybe he was trying to work out if he could buy a bottle of bourbon with it, Crawford amused himself. Maybe he was trying to calculate how much a hotel would charge him just to use their showers. Maybe if Schuldig was here this would be more entertaining.

"We can wander around where he was last sighted and pray," Yohji said finally, "or we can do this properly. Mamoru was kidnapped for the ransom, which his father never paid. I need the ransom tape, for a start, and more money. I know someone who knows someone, but he doesn't come cheap."

"Life is cheap," Crawford shrugged.

"Dead people don't talk much, and these are the kind of guys who know that," Yohji said tiredly. "More money."

"You won't get any," Crawford told him.

"Oh, I'm sure you can put in a kind word for me," Yohji laughed.

"Your services are already redundant," Crawford said brusquely. "My team could have done this in a matter of hours."

"So you'll do it for me? How kind," Yohji smirked broadly, pulled his hat back over his eyes, tilted his seat back and to all appearances went back to sleep.

Crawford frowned at him. "Stop it," he snarled. "I don't want to be here any more than you do."

He got snored at for his troubles.

He lifted up the hat. Yohji's eyes were closed. When Crawford waved his hands in front of the blonde's face not a muscle twitched. The breathing was heavy and regular.

"No one falls asleep that quickly," Crawford grumbled to himself. He shook Yohji's shoulder. His body was completely relaxed, and the eyelids didn't so much as flicker. He drew his gun again and traced the muzzle along Yohji's jaw line. Yohji's head moved away from it, but it wasn't enough to prove he was awake. He started to snore again. They were not the kind of snores people would make up. Buzz saws were more delicate.

Crawford closed his eyes and thought forwards. The evidence that unfolded before him seemed to suggest the young man really was asleep. Still, he poked him anyway. It was amusing.

The phone rang. Crawford hadn't even noticed it before, dirty, dusty, fraying wires and numberless dialling ring. It was an old fashioned phone. It was a phone bought because someone, as a child, had read too many detective stories and thought it was the kind of phone a PI ought to have. It was like the typewriter in that respect. Crawford found it hard to believe it was even possibly to get a phone like that in such a modern environment as Japan.

He slipped into the place in his brain where he could remember the future. "Mr Takatori," he answered the phone, holding it gingerly.

"The phone is only bugged at your end," Hirofumi told him.

"Mr Hirofumi, let me kill this man," Brad said frankly. "He's incompetent. Please say you hired him so I could kill him."

"He's good at what he does," Hirofumi said, voice tinged with amusement.

"I could do it for you. Schwarz can find your brother," Brad persisted.

"I don't trust your team not to go to my father," Hirofumi said crossly. "I only trust you."

"They do what I say," Brad said shortly, but he was still pleased by Hirofumi's words.

"Nagi has been seeing my brother's brat again," Hirofumi insisted. Brad smiled.

There was a definite sibling rivalry between the Takatori brothers, though their conflicting personalities would have made it hard for them to get on anyway. Masafumi felt Hirofumi was the favourite because he spent more time with their father due to his interest in politics. Hirofumi felt his younger brother was spoilt, because their father had paid for his laboratory and allowed him to have his own harem of bodyguards. Both of them ignored the existence of Ouka as far as they could.

"I will speak to him tonight," Brad said firmly.

"You won't see him tonight," Hirofumi told him. "You have to stay with this detective all of the time. He does his best work at night."

Brad glanced across as the sleeping PI. He reached out and poked the man.

"He's asleep," Brad said dryly. "I'm sure even you can hear him snoring."

He reached out again, but Yohji shifted in his sleep and there was an ominous creak. Brad pulled his hand back as the overstressed back legs of the cheap chair gave up hope. With a splintering crash Yohji was on the floor.

"Where am I supposed to stay? He sleeps in his office," Brad complained.

"You're an intelligent man."

"He wants more money. I tell you, the man's an imbecile," Brad went on.

"Oi!" Yohji objected, trying to extract himself from the kindling he had previously been sitting on.

"He's good at what he does," Hirofumi repeated. "The reason he's been out of work is because he once came too close to one of my father's less than legal businesses. His partner was bought off and now works with us under a new name. Unfortunately, money isn't a draw for Kudoh."

"Hah." There was no one for whom money wasn't a draw, in Brad's experience.

"The man's a sentimentalist," Hirofumi laughed.

"I see. That would explain why he subjected me to a load of drivel about his ex-partner."

"No one forced you to listen," Yohji complained from the floor. He struggled to his feet. "Who are you talking to?"

"I suppose I should go," Brad said reluctantly. "Oh, he wanted me to tell you it wasn't enough money."

"Do I hear an 'I told you so' in there?" Hirofumi asked. "No more money. My father might get suspicious. The man is resourceful. He's still in business, isn't he?"

"Is he?" Brad snorted. Glancing at the Japanese man he switched in English. "I don't like this arrangement," he said in the same tone of voice. "I would rather be beside you."

"Mutual," Hirofumi said calmly. "But you're the one I trust."

Yohji watched Brad put the phone down, face blank and mind whirling.

* * *

"First, we go scouting around near where the kid was seen," Yohji said as he drove through the Tokyo traffic. "It'd be sheer pot luck to find him, but there's a logo on the bike in the photo. Probably a local business."

"If you had a computer..." Crawford trailed off irritably.

Yohji shot him a narrow-eyed look. "If I had a bit of money..." he said pointedly.

Crawford sighed and settled back in the worn seat. He wondered vaguely if he'd angered Hirofumi somehow to deserve this prat. No, probably not. He still lived, and rather more tellingly, he hadn't had to kill anyone to continue that state of being. Perhaps he'd angered some god or other. Atheism could do that, he'd heard.

"It would have helped if someone had offered me something, anything, in the way of directions," Yohji grumbled. "Is there any particular reason boy Takatori was so reticent about giving out what street he was on?"

"If the boy was delivering something an exact location isn't going to be of much help," Crawford pointed out testily.

"Well, if you happen to figure out what building he was next to, that would help," Yohji told him.

"How would it help?" Crawford snapped. "We can't check their records because you don't have a computer. We can't find out who they have dealings with, because you don't have the internet. We can't-"

"Are you a hacker?" Yohji interrupted.

"No," Crawford said scornfully.

"Funny, neither am I. Explain again how having a computer would help?"

"At least we'd be able to increase the resolution on the picture, maybe zoom in?" Crawford snarked back.

"If I had some way of getting this picture on to the fictional computer, and happened to own fictional image software," Yohji smirked triumphantly.

"Hirofumi should have let me kill you," Crawford muttered under his breath.

They seemed to have reached a stalemate. As Yohji ground his teeth and battled the morning rush hour traffic in what Crawford thought of as a souped-up go-kart, the American found himself staring at the picture again. A general sense of foreboding had settled on him the moment Hirofumi had casually mentioned his plans, and he was left trying to rationalise the distinctly irrational sensation.

"If it's the same kid, he's got to have a real good reason for not running home," Yohji voiced their thoughts allowed.

"Most people would pay to get out of that family," Crawford said dismissively. He caught the curious look Yohji gave him out of the corner of his eye, but didn't look up. "You need ambition to have any motivation to stick around."

"So you think maybe he's hiding on purpose?" Yohji asked.

Crawford looked at him. "No. He was a child. They were his family. He was too young to understand what kind of people they were. Hell, maybe they weren't back then."

"Why do you work for them?" Yohji asked curiously.

Crawford gave him a superior look. "You're so naïve it's amusing," he said calmly.

"Money," Yohji snorted derisively.

"Power," Crawford corrected him.

"So what's the actual deal? Cruelty? Madness? Megalomania?"

Crawford laughed. "All three and then some. Of course, should you ask any more questions I will feel required to shoot you to protect their security."

"Of course," Yohji said. "So, any other theories on why the boy never went home?"

"Amnesia, possibly. Or his kidnappers still have some hold over him."

"Threatening him?"

"Maybe, but I was thinking along a more psychological bent. It's not unknown for the kidnapped to come to depend on the kidnapper, often in an emotional context."

"Like those dames falling in love with the kidnapper?"

"Mr Kudoh, perhaps it has escaped your noticed, but you are not, in fact, Sam Spade or Philip Marlowe or the Continental Op or any other of the hundreds of detectives from the era and country you so obviously idolise. Words like 'dames', 'broads' and 'frails' went out of fashion decades before either of us were born. They make you sound like a sexist idiot, not the glamorously noir detective you seem to suppose they do" Crawford finished smugly.

"You're just jealous," Yohji laughed, "'cause I got to live my childhood fantasy."

"I'd only be jealous if I wasn't living mine," Crawford folded his arms. Was the boy so stupid he wasn't even offended? Was that even possible?

"What, playing tag-a-long to a smarter, cooler, infinitely more attractive dashing young private eye?" Yohji wiggled his eyebrows.

"I'm wealthy, healthy and in a position to affect state policies without ever getting dirty in the political pool," Crawford said smarmily.

"Are you happy?" Yohji asked.

"Yes," Crawford said shortly. "And that kind of question is best reserved for clichéd romance novels and their feisty young heroines."

Yohji conceded the point. "Are you single?" he asked.

This did bring Crawford up short. To say yes would probably bring on some remark about how he had to have a partner to be fulfilled or some such bullshit, but to say no would provoke questions about the nature of his relationship. They weren't questions he could answer, or refuse to answer.

"Only when it's convenient," he said.

Yohji laughed warmly. "Now that's the way to do it," he grinned.

Crawford blinked. They'd spent the entire journey so far exchanging insults and barbs, but the Japanese man had just said that as though he _liked_ him. Crawford shook his head wryly. Some people were fools. What kind of idiot let someone insult them for hours and then forgive them, just on the basis of one mildly amusing retort? Crawford wallowed in cheerful contempt of the smoking, drinking, idealistic sentimentalist.

"Can you tell if the place in the picture is residential or a business?" Yohji asked after a short silence. 

Crawford squinted down at the fingerprinted and greasy photo. One night in that man's desk. One night and it looked like it had been passed around the workers at a lard factory.

"Can't tell," he sighed eventually, not liking to admit defeat.

"The building's style is from about two decades ago, certain area of the city," Yohji looked over the photo again while they waited at a set of traffic lights. "A lot of that stuff got torn down, you know, but there are a few pockets left. Not far from the sea front."

Despite himself, Crawford was impressed.

"The pink motor's got to be quite distinctive too," Yohji went on. "Not many teenaged boys would ride a thing like that. We'll ask a few questions, keep an eye out, have a proper walk around. Unless, of course, you happen to know a better way to do it, using my fictional computer?" Yohji let the corner of his mouth curl up.

"That joke is old now," Crawford sighed in exasperation. "We'll do it your way. It's your job, after all. Mine's to kill you when you fail to do it."

"You know, I'm sure we could go, oh, maybe a whole hour without bringing that up, surely?" Yohji muttered.

"Oh, but I'm so looking forwards to it, I just can't contain my excitement," Crawford snarled sarcastically.

"You're pretty sick, you know that?" Yohji shook his head.

"No, Farfarello is pretty sick. Schuldig is pretty and sick. Masafumi is very sick," Crawford laughed quietly. "I'm the sane one."

"People who get a kick out of killing aren't sane," Yohji offered his opinion.

"I didn't say I got a kick out of killing. I just really, really want you dead so I never have to deal with you again," Crawford smirked.

"That proves you're insane. No one in their right mind would take this body from the world's ladies," Yohji leant back, tank top sliding up to display taught stomach muscles.

"I hadn't realised you were delusional as well as stupid," Crawford told him. "It would explain why you could only afford half a shirt."

"You're a nice guy," Yohji rolled his eyes, that amused look back. It baffled Crawford. Everything was telling him the blond didn't hate him, despite his anger during their mudslinging match. But that anger was gone, and the easy-going charm rolled back over to hide any evidence that it had ever existed.

As they climbed out of the car Crawford allowed himself a moment to grimace at his own thoughts. He was finding it damn hard to hate a man who refused to hate him. He could kill strangers, slaughter both friend and foe, do anything to get his own way and put himself first, but surely it was Schuldig who ought to be having this kind of problem? Crawford didn't need hate to hate. Right?

"You going to stand in the road all day?" Yohji chuckled.

"Maybe," Crawford snapped before he could help himself.

Yohji crossed the road and leant on the railing, staring at the sea vacantly. Crawford followed. Yohji was smoking again. Crawford took advantage of the opportunity to take another look at the young man. He was wearing that stupid hat again and a long trenchcoat, cigarette clamped between his lips. Crawford sighed. He'd never seen someone go so far out of his or her way to live their childhood fantasy, as Yohji had put it. It was like seeing a grown man dressed as Superman. But the Japanese man came close to pulling it off. He wouldn't make a bad actor, Crawford decided.

"Want one?" Yohji held out the rumpled pack.

Crawford considered for a second. "Why not?" he shrugged. "Though I'd like to point out that yet again we're not getting anything done in regards to finding the kid."

"And you're going to kill me," Yohji finished.

"If these cheap sticks of shit don't beat me to it," Crawford flicked the half smoked cigarette into the sea. Yohji gave him a dirty look. "You can get nice cigarettes on a budget as well."

"They're cigarettes," Yohji pointed out. "Not meant to be nice."

"Oh, I see. You smoke to be cool. My mistake," Crawford laughed softly. "You're a strange person."

"I'm a person you haven't quite got your head around yet," Yohji told him. "We're all strange people."

"That a motto?"

"Might as well be," Yohji shrugged. "You think you've got a person figured out and they turn around and become someone else overnight."

Crawford wasn't sure if Yohji wanted him to push for more information or back off. He told himself he didn't care.

"What's the plan?" Crawford asked. "I suppose you have contacts or something."

"What, prostitutes and barmen?" Yohji snorted. "I'm not that advanced yet. Staying in the small scale, with waitresses and... No, that's not true. I have several contacts I'd happily put in prison if they weren't keeping me in business."

"Pull the other one," Crawford shook his head.

"You'll meet them later," Yohji sighed. "I did some reading up on the kidnapping, and I know a guy who runs a racket. Prostitutes. Slaves, really. He's got contacts though, so the world is stuck with the likes of him."

"We're going to talk to a slaver?" Crawford frowned.

"This evening. If Hirofumi is so keen to keep to himself where he saw his brother, it has to be somewhere he shouldn't have been."

"You think the boy is hanging around a red light district?" Crawford asked sceptically.

Yohji sighed. "Welcome to my world." He sighed again and took another drag on the glowing stub of his cigarette, smoking more filter than anything else. "However, that picture was taken in daylight, and the moped looks like it belongs to a legit business. You know your boss. Where else shouldn't he be?"

"Maybe it's not a matter of where, but when."

"Interesting. Escaping meetings?"

Crawford grimaced. He wanted this whole thing over and done with. Since he couldn't shoot the boy in broad daylight, he had to play along.

"He likes a lot of the clubs. The good ones," Crawford added. "He buys shares in some of them."

"That _sounds_ legal," Yohji said carefully.

"It is," Crawford lied. "But being the son of a leading politician, it might not look so good."

"What, branching out and running his own life? Yes, Crawford-san. Again, please?"

Crawford shook his head.

"Employee loyalty keeping that trap shut?"

"Same as yours," Crawford sighed.

"I see. So, I'm left to my own devices to find out where Takatori Hirofumi is not meant to be during the day. It's somewhere around here. Funny, because this isn't a particularly sleazy place, not somewhere you'd be ashamed to be. A lot of schools, sure, but that's all that's going to keep the property prices down. You'd think an aspiring politician would want the publicity around here."

"Well, you know what the media is like," Crawford shrugged awkwardly.

"Sure," Yohji groaned.

"So, we start walking and talking?" Crawford asked as Yohji abandoned the remains of his cigarette, which must have been burning his fingers for quite a while, into the sea.

"I guess so," Yohji sighed heavily, shooting one last wistful look at the ocean.

"Go on, tell me whatever it is that's making you show the sea puppy dog eyes," Crawford sighed. "I don't want people looking at us thinking I just killed your grandmother."

"It's the sea," Yohji shrugged. "Big. Wet. Salty."

"And its special significance to you is..." Crawford prompted.

"It's an alternative to all this legwork?" 

He did have very long legs to work with.

Crawford contemplated that thought for a second, and pointedly turned his attention back to the sea. Long legs, taut abdomens, rakish smiles; he didn't much care for those thoughts. He thought about the stupid hat instead. Yes, that made him feel better.


	3. Chapter Two

Chapter Two 

The sun was orange now, and pinned to the sky by a cluster of skyscrapers that were trying to smother it. Yohji shrugged. "What can I say? I'm a lazy guy." It earned him a brief smile that was rapidly restrained. Yohji sighed internally. He was trying his best, he'd have you know. The guy just seemed determined to hate him. Strange American.

Actually... "What bit of America are you from?" Yohji asked as they strolled along.

"None of your business."

Another brick wall.

"We're not getting anywhere," Crawford grumbled.

Too right. Yohji rolled his eyes. "And I thought _I_ was lazy. Patience, comrade. The only times this is a fast business are the times you realise you were insane for taking it up."

"Slow and steady wins the race, and all that shit?"

"Doesn't make a blind bit of difference," Yohji shook his head. "It's just a slow business. You walk, you talk, you flash cash and you keep your eyes a bit more open than you seem to be."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Crawford asked petulantly.

Yohji jerked his head at the opposite side of the road. A small pink moped with a large flower painted on it was propped against the pavement. Both men stopped and stared at it. They got a few odd looks, two men standing too close by the side of the road, frowning at a florist's delivery cart.

The man that came out of the building wasn't the one they were looking for. He saw them staring at the moped and shot them a strange look. Stocky, but in an athletic way, Yohji felt certain he'd seen him somewhere before. A photo, maybe. He was giving the moped a despairing look and got on it reluctantly. And then he was gone.

"Fuck," Yohji shook himself. "Didn't make the most of that."

"It was a stroke of luck," Crawford acknowledged.

Yohji glanced at him. "Private Eye's don't do luck," he laughed. "It's always a result of superior skill and planning."

"Of course," Crawford said condescendingly. To his annoyance Yohji laughed. 

"Come on. Let's go find out where that toy comes from," he grabbed Crawford's arm and pulled him across the road. Crawford shook him off irritably, frowning at the creases in his suit. Yohji grabbed at him again and continued to tug him along. Crawford looked down at the slender tanned hand clutching his with a look of mild confusion. To his utmost horror his palm started sweating and he yanked his hand away. The PI didn't even seem to notice.

It was a small hall, the type reserved for weddings and birthdays and pre-teen discos. A wedding today, Yohji divined, and a western one. Foreigners who though Tokyo was a romantic place for a wedding. For a moment Yohji felt his heart constrict. He'd meant to marry Asuka. Planned it in his head, more than once. They'd joked together about it. Yohji would never be able to afford a wedding, they joked, never afford a place to live or a family or much of anything. Of course, if he'd known then how much worse his financial situation was going to get he wouldn't have joked about it. If he'd known Asuka was going to leave him...

Crawford gaped as Yohji stumbled to a stop just inside the hall, produced a bottle from an inside coat pocket and proceeded to take a large swig from it.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Crawford forced himself to keep his voice to a furious hiss.

Yohji looked at him blankly. "Come on. This looks like a rehearsal, which is a good thing. Let's find a bridesmaid. They deal with the decorations side of things. That or somebody's mother."

"What are you drinking?" Crawford tried again.

Yohji ignored him. Switching on a charming grin he sauntered over to a girl in a short dress, smoking and tapping the ash into a vase. She gave him an appraising look.

"Haven't seen you here before," she murmured sultrily. "Don't tell me this affair might even border on interesting."

"You look like you'd be an interesting affair yourself," Yohji purred.

"Kudoh," Crawford loomed over his shoulder.

"I'm looking for the name of the company that supplied these gorgeous flowers," Yohji traced a long finger along her jawline, eyes on her only. His other hand darted out and suddenly a cattelya was tickling the underside of her nose.

"Kitten in the house," she told him, eyes wide.

"You stroked my back, I'll stroke yours," Yohji leant in further.

"Thank you for your time," Crawford leant over Yohji's shoulder and pulled him firmly away. Yohji grinned and winked at her, digging into that inside pocket again (Crawford heard the bottle clink, though what against he didn't want to know) to produce a crisp white card.

"Call me," Yohji grinned.

"You're not a guest?" her eyes widened.

"The only wedding you'll ever see me at is ours, sweetheart," Yohji cocked his hat and turned away.

As they made their way back onto the street Yohji gave Crawford a knowing look. "And that's how a _professional _does it."

"Professional what?" Crawford asked, clearly not impressed. "We know the name of the shop. We don't know if the boy works there, we don't even know if it's the right boy, and thanks to your questioning 'technique' we don't even know where it is."

Yohji glanced down at the flower still between his fingers. "I'd say we'd be able to find it in a phone book," he mused. "After all, they do deliveries."

"Why should that make them any more likely to be in the directory?" Crawford demanded.

"If you wanted to bulk order flowers, would you rather call over the phone or go and pick them out individually?" Yohji asked dryly. "Knowing you, I'm sure it's individually, but for those of us willing to let things slide just a little..."

"You seem to have let things slide a lot," Crawford said coldly. "Drinking on the job?"

"Drinking, but not drunk," Yohji said calmly. The blunt admission stunned Crawford for a moment, and Yohji noticed this. "Maybe where you come from people don't talk about it, and just pop pills and swig champagne and pretend nothing's wrong until they end up in one of the fashionable rehabs, but in the world I come from life is life. I need to drink sometimes. It's not as though I can afford to live any other way."

Crawford looked at him. "I suppose I ought to appreciate your honesty," he said, "but my opinion of you, having started at rock bottom, recently bought some mining equipment."

"You have a way with words," Yohji said shortly.

"There's a phone booth over there. We can call directory enquires, or the operator, or something," Crawford said roughly. 

Yohji stepped into the booth and closed the door in Crawford's face. He stared at the scratched Perspex in dismay. Someone had inscribed "HK and FS forever" at eye level. He stared at it for a moment before realising he must look a little strange, nose to booth, and stepped back hurriedly.

Yohji's phone voice wasn't very different from his getting information from hot women voice, though Crawford supposed that he didn't usually have much reason to differentiate. He draped one arm around the coin receiver like an old friend and laughed with the person on the end of the line. There was a moment when Crawford wanted to be the one being spoken to like that by a complete stranger.

When Yohji emerged from the booth, face glowing with triumph, Crawford slipped past him and closed the door in his face before he could announce his success. Card in the slit and fingers dialling a number he'd learnt by heart the day he heard it.

"Mr Takatori?"

"Crawford?"

"Hirofumi."

"Has something gone wrong?"

"No," Crawford sighed.

"Why are you calling?"

Crawford tried to picture Hirofumi draped around the phone, smiling at the receiver. The image frightened him. He glanced out of the booth to see Yohji chatting to a pair of schoolgirls who were also queuing for the phone. Weren't they all supposed to have cell phones these days?

Hang on a second, didn't _he_ have a cell phone?

"I wanted to forewarn you that this might all be over by the end of today," Crawford forced himself to say. "Also, Kudoh's suspicion has been aroused by your reluctance to say where you took the photograph. He's going to investigate."

"Dissuade him," Hirofumi said brusquely. "Don't call me again unless you have my brother on the line, understand?"

"Yes sir." Crawford stared at the buzzing receiver. Yohji pushed the door open and stepped back. With a sigh Crawford hung up and took his card. As he walked out Yohji casually let his arm move from the door to Crawford's shoulder. Crawford stiffened slightly.

"Hirofumi's keeping tabs on me?" Yohji asked. 

Well, it made more sense than any reason Crawford could think of. "Sure." He shook his head. "So, are we off to buy some flowers?"

"Red or white roses?" Yohji grinned. It was brittle. His arm slipped down Crawford's back and buried itself in a pocket. Crawford watched as the bottle came back out in the middle of the street. He didn't object. It looked almost reasonable right now.

"Black," Crawford said.

"Oh, symbolic," Yohji laughed tiredly. "It's a long walk or a short drive, take your pick."

"Walk," Crawford said. "Know how to get there?"

"Yeah, the kid on the end of the line glowed the instructions at me." Crawford gave him an odd look. Yohji grimaced. "You know what I mean. Very enthusiastic. Might even be the kid we're looking for."

"We really could have this wrapped up by this evening," Crawford mused aloud. "What a pity, I won't get to meet your sleazy friends."

Yohji almost stopped walking. "I have no friends," he said bluntly, and went from almost stopped to almost running.

* * *

Crawford stared through the window in horror.

"Yes, flowers deserve that kind of disgust and terror. They are fearsome things," Yohji said.

"The redhead." And then, "the kid!"

"Expand," Yohji said, pulling him to a nearby park bench, out of sight of the shop.

"I was with Mr Takatori, Reiji, at a certain club, when we were attacked. Terrorists who go by the name of Weiss. The redhead through a katana at our helicopter, screaming 'Die, Takatori'. Not a face I'm going to forget." Crawford's mind clicked in gear. "Perfect. We know where they live. This is perfect."

Yohji looked a little disturbed. "You can stay here. Not killing people. I'll go and establish if the boy we want is in there."

"I suspect he may be involved with Weiss as well," Crawford said. "This won't be over tonight."

Yohji looked him over for a moment. "Do you really kill people?" he asked quietly.

"I'm a bodyguard," Crawford said. "I have to do everything I can to ensure the safety of my charge. Sometimes that means taking a proactive stance."

Yohji mulled this over. "Yeah, proactive. I've done that."

"Going to talk to our boy?" Crawford asked. "I'm going to move to a position where I can keep an eye on you."

"What, in case I grab him and run off? Hold him to ransom?" Yohji grinned. He reached into his pocket and drew out the bottle. Expensive stuff, Crawford noted. "Keep an eye on this for me," Yohji told him. "You look like you need something to guard."

"You want me to sit on a bench with a bottle of," Crawford looked at the label, "whiskey? I refuse to."

"When I said you looked like you need something to guard? I lied. You look like you need something to drink," Yohji told him. He left Crawford staring at the bottle and disappeared around the corner. Crawford moved cautiously to a bench across the road, and settled down to watch.

"Good afternoon!" a chirpy voice met Yohji. The flowershop was bustling with school girls out of uniform, a redhead glowering at them from a corner and the brunette he'd seen earlier serving three at once. 

Yohji switched on the smile. "You must be Omi!" he sauntered across the shop, all hips and legs. The fangirls were momentarily distracted. "Thank you for the directions." He tipped his hat.

"You're welcome," the boy beamed.

"Has anyone ever told you that you have a wonderful phone voice? I could have talked to you all day," Yohji purred.

Omi blushed. "Is there anything in particular you're looking for?"

"Something pretty for someone special," Yohji told him. "You're making this hard for me though."

"If you tell me a little more about the special person?" Omi smiled.

Yohji gestured vaguely. If he wasn't careful he was going to end up describing Asuka. "Well, if it were you, what would make _you_ feel as special as we _both_ know you are?" he leant against a shelf and ran a hand down Omi's sleeve.

"Oh, ah..." Omi glanced around the room. Yohji looked up and saw the brunette fuming. Ohhh. "I have some arrangements that might please you," Omi gestured to the back of the shop.

"Wonderful," Yohji said warmly. He followed Omi through the simpering girls. "How old are you?" he asked.

"Seventeen," Omi said cautiously.

"What do your parents think of you working here? You seem to attract a lot of female attention," Yohji grinned cheekily. He tugged on the brim of his hat and rearranged it slightly.

"Oh," Omi looked trapped. "I'm an orphan," he said softly.

Yohji's grin disappeared. "I'm sorry," he said sincerely. His hand froze on the hat, arm half hiding his face. 

Omi stared at the flowers he was holding. "I don't remember it," he said. "I guess it must have been quite traumatic, to give me amnesia, but it's not really as sad as it sounds you know. I don't have anyone to miss."

Yohji let go of his hat and reached out to brush wispy hair from huge blue eyes. "I bet they miss you, wherever they are. Anyone would."

Omi held up the flowers. "Shall I wrap these for you?"

"No, thanks," Yohji sighed.

As Omi rung up the totals on the till Yohji watched him sympathetically. "Do you support yourself?"

"Yeah, pretty much," Omi smiled. "The three of us run this place pretty well. You'd be surprised what we make."

"With this many customers I'm not sure I would be," Yohji grinned.

"So what do you do for a living?" Omi asked innocently.

"I'll tell you when you're older," Yohji leant down and murmured in his ear.

"Buy something else or get out," a voice said from behind him.

"I was just giving him his change, Aya," Omi said earnestly.

Yohji turned to meet cold lilac eyes. "On the other hand, with that kind of attitude I'm surprised you've got customers at all," he muttered under his breath. He tilted his head to one side, rearranged his hat and gave Aya a critical look. "Though perhaps not." He turned back to Omi. "Is hiring gorgeous guys a marketing ploy?"

One of the schoolgirls overheard him. "Oh, it definitely works," she enthused.

Her friend chipped in, "they should hire you!" She giggled loud enough to make those surrounding her flinch.

Yohji smiled at them and winked at one of the other girls' who attention he had drawn. "I'm flattered," he purred. If any one of them had been over eighteen they'd have walked out of there with flowers and a date, but to Yohji's dismay they were all still very much girls.

He left then, swinging the bunch of flowers casually, exchanging winks and nods and waves and eye-contact with most of the customers and very much with Omi, just to watch the two other men in the shop fume for very different reasons. Somebody else was fuming as well. Yohji smirked at Crawford and collapsed bonelessly next to him on the bench.

"Flowers for the lady?" Yohji joked. Crawford's glasses dazzled him with reflected light, but despite that Yohji knew his joke hadn't gone down well. Which was why he was deeply shocked when Crawford gently relieved him of the bouquet, and sat calmly with it in his lap.


	4. Chapter Three

Chapter Three 

Crawford was furious with himself. He was sitting on a park bench where any of his enemies could find him at any time, holding a bunch of flowers and feeling smug for getting one over a stunned Yohji. None of that bothered him. What bothered him was the fact he was doing it all _because he was jealous_.

He'd known Kudoh for less than a day. Less. Than. A. Day. And yet he'd positioned himself here to get a good view. He'd sat and glowered as Yohji had flirted and charmed the boy they were supposed to be hunting. He'd felt as strongly as he had when Hirofumi flirted with people at his father's gatherings. More strongly, because Hirofumi was obliged to do that, but nothing was forcing Yohji to stroke the boy's arm like that and wink at those girls and...

He wondered what the Japanese for 'sexual tension' was.

"So, what did you learn?" he forced himself to say.

"It's not good," Yohji sighed, slumping back on the bench and tugging that ubiquitous hat over his eyes to shield them from the afternoon sun. "He said he was an orphan, which I figured was par for the course, but he also said he didn't remember his parents."

"If he did, he would have gone back to them," Crawford pointed.

"Exactly," Yohji said. "That and the way he said it convince me he's sincere. If he simply didn't want to go back he'd have stopped at orphan. By saying he doesn't remember he's actually leaving a lot open. His parents could be alive. His parents could have abandoned him, or hurt him, or lost him to kidnappers. Even if he is working for this terrorist organisation, amnesia is a pretty dodgy excuse. Hard to disprove, but it's one of those lies that snowballs until you forget bits of the story."

"Does this mean we have to meet your sleazy... contacts?" Crawford caught himself. 

"Yup," Yohji sighed. "You got any other clothes?"

"No," Crawford said coolly. "No one told me I'd be forced to live with you."

"Forced?" Yohji asked, slightly hurt.

Crawford shook his head and stood up. "Come on. I suppose we ought to go back."

Yohji nodded. As they stood up he looked back at the shop and touched the brim of his hat again. Crawford frowned. Either he'd developed a nervous habit in the last twenty minutes or...

"Hidden camera?" he asked in a low tone.

"You're a smart guy," Yohji grinned. He squeezed the brim of the hat again. "Smile!"

As they walked back, Crawford's thoughts returned yet again to his current partner. Boyfriend wasn't the word, lover was completely misleading, and even friend was too strong. He and Hirofumi had a lot in common. They both stood to gain from their current relationship. And, as if those were reasons enough, they both got sex out of it as well.

Oh, that was a cynical way of looking at it, but Crawford knew perfectly well he was a cynical person. He admired Hirofumi - yes, admired was the word. He couldn't like the man any more than he could like himself. It would be a weakness, making himself vulnerable, especially should anything happen to Hirofumi. And they could hardly be open about their relationship, not without causing a scandal.

'Relationship'. Damn. 

Oh, any prolonged interaction with a person was a relationship of sorts. Professional, casual, sexual, romantic...

His relationship with Hirofumi made _sense_. He stood to gain financially, politically and socially. He spied on Hirofumi for his father, and he spied on Reiji for his son. For these acts, he was rewarded. He was allowed more access to coveted information, and his suggestions carried more weight. He earned good money and had good sex. In a few years he'd be the power behind Japan.

Whatever Yohji represented to him didn't make sense. If Hirofumi found out he'd be killed. Simple. Even if Hirofumi didn't find out, Yohji couldn't offer him anything. Even though Yohji could make him laugh. Even though he was already worrying about the young man's self destructive tendencies. Even though he found Kudoh attractive in ways he never had Hirofumi. He'd known more attractive people and resisted them, and he couldn't understand why this lanky idealist drew him in ways no one else ever had.

Perhaps the attraction was the idea that Yohji couldn't offer him anything, and so couldn't demand anything. Crawford glanced down at the flowers in his hand. It was easy to imagine something happening, even if it was just once. But then, 'just once' was precisely the opposite of the desire Yohji sparked in him. Crawford hadn't dreamed, as a boy, of becoming an international assassin, or the power behind the political scenes, or even a rogue psychic. He'd wanted to be a detective, like the men in the comics and the books and on TV. And here was a guy who'd gone out there with the same dream, and lived it, despite the drawbacks.

Crawford decided in his own mind that he didn't want Yohji, just Yohji's life. It sat better with him than the idea that his fascination with the young man was both sexual and romantic. He couldn't possibly _like_ the annoying git.

* * *

Yohji led Crawford back into the dingy office, switching on a table light to provide some illumination. Crawford tossed the flowers, which had earned him some curious looks as they'd made their way back to Yohji's car, onto the worn desk and deposited the whisky, no doubt another factor in the strange stares, in its drawer. Yohji took his hat off and extracted a tiny camera from it.

"I know a guy who'll develop that for free overnight," Yohji said. "I'll take it over in a bit."

"I think you better tell me more about what we're doing tonight." Crawford leant against the wall.

"We're going to a club," Yohji grinned wearily, like a comedian who's bored of his own jokes. "The guy I know runs a kidnapping ring, as I mentioned before. Mostly early teens, not as young as Mamoru was, but he knows others who are happy to take a boy like that. Tends to look down on ransomers, which is a plus for us. He likes to bitch about others in the trade."

The look of utter disgust on Crawford's face made Yohji wince. "I tried turning him in. Got badly beaten up and left in an alley by some men in a distinctly unofficial official uniform, if you get my drift. He's got friends higher up. I figure that's another reason he doesn't do ransoms."

"If he's got contacts like that," Crawford mentally ran through a list of Takatori's 'unofficial business' contacts, "you'd be dead."

"I was 'proactive' with them," Yohji said shortly.

"Ah," Crawford nodded. "And because they shouldn't have been there in the first place, there wasn't much anyone could do. They probably didn't even exist on legal records."

"Is that how our politician operates?" Yohji asked coolly.

"Something like that, yes," Crawford said honestly. "Back to tonight?"

"Oh, yes." Yohji's internal struggle to get back to the matter at hand wasn't internal enough to keep Crawford notice his conflict. "Clubbing. Go through my stuff and find something that fits you while I get this film sorted out. We'll have to drive to the club, so minimal drinking. He'll try and get us drunk, of course. Have you ever been clubbing?"

"It's not my scene," Crawford said. Yohji half smiled at the half pun. "I sure I can bluff it."

"Can you see without the glasses?" Yohji asked.

"No," Crawford said.

Yohji grimaced. "I'll guess we'll have to make do. You don't strike me as the sort to carry contacts with you." He started to make his way towards the door, tiny camera nestled in the palm of his hand.

"What makes you say that?" Crawford asked, genuinely curious.

"I've checked your jacket pockets," Yohji grinned. Before Crawford could point out he'd yet to take the item of clothing off, Yohji had gone.

"What did I do to deserve this?" he said to himself. Self-consciously he checked his pockets, still baffled at the Japanese man's reply, and blinked at a scrap of paper he found.

'_I borrowed a bit of change for the flowers. No doubt your employer will reimburse you. P.I. Kudoh Y._'

Sorting out the film didn't take long, though chatting up the new girl who worked in the shop wasted a few more minutes. Sometimes Yohji wondered why he bothered.

He usually arranged dates with about half the women he got numbers from, and maybe half again he slept with, but he'd never been on more than two dates with a girl since Asuka...

These thoughts brought him back to his office rather sooner than he'd hoped, but his temporary partner had already found some clothes that fit. Yohji frowned.

"Casual doesn't come naturally to you, does it?" he sighed.

Crawford glanced down. "Do you know how hard I had to look for a top that fit me?" He was wearing a pair of Yohji's leather trousers, slightly too short in the leg, and a mesh top. He looked uncomfortable, to say the least. He also looked like a single father who had trusted his teenage daughter to choose him clothes for a date with a girl her age. 

"We're the same height," Yohji said pointedly. Crawford wondered why he hadn't started laughing yet.

"And yet, so much more flesh than I'm comfortable displaying," Crawford spread his hands.

Yohji looked him up and down. "You know what? Too casual. You're going to stand out like a sore thumb because it's so obvious you've tried too hard."

"The shops are closed," Crawford pointed out. "Unless you suggest I go in wearing Armani-"

"Exactly!"

"What?"

Yohji snatched up Crawford's neatly, obsessively neatly, folded suit and held up the trousers and suit critically. The trousers were black, bootlegged, and the shirt expensive burgundy silk. He smiled predatorily.

"Take your trousers off," he commanded.

Crawford raised an eyebrow. Yohji kept smiling. Crawford undid the leather trousers. Yohji's smile broadened slightly. The trousers being tight, Crawford couldn't just let them slid, and had to bend over and push them down. He stood up.

Yohji's jaw and the clothes he'd been holding dropped.

"Oh yeah," he managed. "Underwear not so much under those trousers. Tight trousers. Right. No underwear. Naked. Yes."

"Are you going to continue with your plan, or was the resolution the part where you stand here gawking at my tackle?" Crawford folded his arms.

"Oh. Yeah." Yohji bent down and retrieved Crawford's crumpled clothes again and held them out. "Put on."

Crawford dressed, amused smile still quirked at the trying-not-to-blush Yohji. He started buttoning the shirt and Yohji grabbed his hand. Crawford swallowed at the warm skin contact. Yohji's hand was sweating slightly.

"Undone," Yohji said firmly. "Casual."

Crawford wished for a mirror. "So I look... cool?"

"In so much as anyone who screams 'suit' and is over twenty-five can."

"Over twenty-five?" Crawford stepped back slightly. "That makes me old?"

"If you hesitate before using the word 'cool' you're too old to use it," Yohji said firmly. "I didn't say you _were_ old, just that you act it." 

And Crawford felt embarrassed. It was a foreign feeling. "No you didn't," he retorted automatically.

Yohji shrugged. "Okay, you caught me. Pretty quick for an old guy," he smirked.

And then Yohji was pinned to the wall, handgun pressed to his exposed naval, staring at his own wide eyes in over polished glasses.

"I guess I am," Crawford smiled. Yohji was breathing heavily, chest rising and falling against his own. He could feel the heat of Yohji's startled body through the mesh of his top. Yohji looked a little vulnerable, a little scared, and a little turned on. 

"We have to get going," Yohji breathed. "We don't want to be unable to get in."

Crawford released him and stepped back. Finally, he'd made Yohji feel as uncomfortable as he felt. Sure, the boy thought he was straight, but he was young and easily influenced. Crawford traced the cold muzzle of his gun along Yohji's jawline, watching a thin bead of sweat slide down it.

Maybe Hirofumi wouldn't be happy about it, but Crawford was going to seduce this youth, consequences be damned.

* * *

They got into the club surprisingly easily, with more money Yohji had filched from Crawford's wallet. Looking around, though, Crawford spotted something about the clientele Yohji had failed to mention previously.

"It's a gay club," he said flatly.

"I didn't think you'd mind," Yohji said. His voice was steeped in confidence, but it was sly rather than smug.

"You presume to make assumptions about my sexuality having known me for less than a day?" Crawford said frostily.

"No, I presume to make assumptions about your sexuality having heard you tell your boyfriend and boss that you basically miss him."

Taking advantage of Crawford's shock, Yohji dragged him over to the bar and sat him on a navy leather stool. He flagged down the bartender and handed him a card as he ordered their drinks.

Crawford leant back against the bar and surveyed the club. It had two floors, or rather, one and a half. The walls on the ground floor were lined with booths and tables, the centre reserved as a dance floor. The bar took up and entire wall as well, with several staff serving on it, all shirtless. The first floor had an industrial look to it, made of metal scaffolding pipes and perforated metal sheets. There were more niches and booths, curtained off. From it hung a few cages with gogo dancers in, and on top of it were platforms for other employed dancers. It was an exhibitionist's wet dream.

Most of the staff, Crawford noticed, looked far too young to be working there.

"I didn't realise you swung both ways," Crawford leant in to be heard.

Yohji gave him a scathing look. "I don't," he said bluntly. His face softened. "Well, not as a rule. I guess if it was a real special guy I'd make an exception."

"You seemed so at home here," Crawford said awkwardly.

"It's a club," Yohji grinned. "I don't care who it's aimed at as long as there's good booze and good music."

A guy appeared over his shoulder. "And good looking people?" he asked.

"Sure," Yohji grinned. "Anything to further my reputation as the biggest slut in Tokyo."

The guy leant forwards over him. "Well, if that's what you want, I can see a free booth upstairs..."

"He's with me," Crawford said stonily. Yohji managed not to look too surprised.

The guy laughed. "Like fuck."

"Sorry," Yohji shrugged the guy away. "He's right."

"No way," the guy said, draping his arm around Yohji again. "My wife and I make a more convincing couple."

Yohji frowned. This guy was going to be trouble, he could tell. He didn't want any sexual entanglements tonight. He needed Kotoku to know he was here for business, not pleasure.

He was dragged off his stool by Crawford, and into the old man's lap. He forced himself to relax quickly, and raised one hand to caress Crawford's cheek.

"He's with me," Crawford repeated coldly. Yohji smirked at the persistent young man. The guy stared at them both suspiciously.

"I still don't believe it," he said firmly.

"If you think I'm going to change my behaviour towards my boyfriend just because you're trying to challenge it, then I pity you. You clearly have a weak mind." Crawford laughed softly. "Come on," he stood up, tumbling Yohji from his lap. "Let's get away from this creep. I hate these places enough without having to defend your honour from other men."

  
"You promised you'd try to enjoy yourself," Yohji said. It was an easy game to play. "Please? At least one dance."

Crawford sighed. "Well, considering the amount I had to fork out to get in here, I suppose we ought to get our money's worth," he grumbled.

"I still don't believe it," the stranger said, but the confidence was replaced with petulance.

Yohji leant against Crawford and let the older man wrap and arm around his waist. The silk of the shirt felt cool against his skin and gave him goose bumps. Crawford squeezed him slightly, pulling him close. They walked to the dance floor like that, Crawford's nose in Yohji's long hair, looking to all the world like young lovers. Well, like young people who were just waiting for the right moment to jump in to bed together. In a place like this there wasn't much of a difference between one night stand and long term relationship.

"Was that guy 'real special'?" Crawford asked. Yohji frowned, Crawford's tone was casual, but his expression intent.

Yohji knew what he meant, though, and concentrated instead on squeezing Crawford's hips and writhing against the awkward American. "No, not at all," he said, looking over Crawford's shoulder.

"And what would you have done if I hadn't been here?" Crawford persisted.

Yohji squirmed under that gaze. He knew he'd have done precisely what Crawford was suggesting, what the flirt had wanted, and he knew he'd have regretted it, but he'd have swallowed those regrets and do it again and again. He was running out of women, after all; they'd all started to look like Asuka. They had breasts, she had breasts, they had hair, she had hair, and so on. He'd be gay be default, not choice.

"I know it's not my business," Crawford went on solemnly, "but your behaviour worries me. It's irresponsible and putting you in danger."

"And you?" Yohji asked wryly.

"I can defend myself," Crawford said calmly. "You appear not to want to."

Yohji grimaced. Crawford's expression was almost sympathetic, as though he'd done this himself, or knew someone who had. Well, he _was_ older, wasn't he, and he must have been through a few rough-ended relationships himself. Of course, he was still on his way up, while the end of Yohji's relationship had signalled the end of his career, his ability to pay for his apartment and every single dream he'd once cherished. His idle boasts to Crawford that he was living his dreams were nothing more than that, idle.

"He's still watching," Crawford breathed in his ear. Yohji wasn't sure when the older man had gotten so close. He tried to focus on Crawford's face, but it was too close and then...

And then they were kissing.

It wasn't like kissing a woman. For a moment, Yohji wondered if this was what it was like for a woman, but he rejected that idea quickly. Crawford's lips were hard against his own, hard enough to feel his teeth behind them, and Yohji opened his mouth hungrily. Tongue on tongue was equally firm and forceful, making Yohji want to kiss back as fiercely as he was being kissed. It was a challenge. Yohji responded well to challenges. Why else was he hunting a boy who should have died for a man who wouldn't give him information with a bodyguard who apparently wanted to jump him in the middle of a club?

For Crawford it was something different. Yohji had been standing there in his arms, apparently too listless to keep up even the most minimal impression of dancing in the swaying crowd, the look on his face that of a boy who just learnt Santa wasn't real. No, that Santa had been brutally murdered by the elves. It wasn't an attractive look for the brunette, whose eyes were too narrow and his mouth too thin to look beautifully sad. That had needed changing, Crawford told himself, descending on unsuspecting lips and being pleasantly surprised with the way Yohji responded so eagerly.

He withdrew and over his shoulder Yohji could see the man who'd flirted with him earlier, leading some other apathetic young man towards the private compartments. Yohji smiled. Crawford smiled back a little uncertainly. Yohji darted his head forwards and placed a quick peck on Crawford's lips, to see if he could make that shock run a little deeper.

"We should approach Kotoku now," Yohji told him. "He's knows I'm here, and he doesn't like waiting."

Yohji tried to move out of the circle of Crawford's arms, but Crawford pulled him in tighter, concern written on his face. Yohji frowned at him.

"I suspect," Crawford said slowly, "this Kotoku may be an illicit business contact of Takatori's. If so, he may recognise me."

"If so, he already knows damn well you're here," Yohji said bluntly. "May I ask what stopped from mentioning this earlier, when it might have actually mattered?" he added snippily, trying again to move away from the American, who still hung on grimly, one arm around his shoulders, the other around his waist.

"Because I don't know you," Crawford said. "I'm not entirely sure I trust you. Over the course of a single day you've already gathered enough information to implicate the entire Takatori family several times over. Even without evidence the papers would tear them to shreds."

"Are you in the habit of flirting with people you don't trust?" Yohji asked caustically.

"I trust no one," Crawford said glibly. "So, were I inclined to flirt with people, which I'm not, I wouldn't have much of a choice."

Was Crawford trying to imply that sticking his tongue down Yohji's throat wasn't flirting? Yohji bit back the doubt. Perhaps they did things differently in America. After all, most of his childhood heroes hadn't exactly been romantic types, with their dames and broads and frails and all those other slang words for women Crawford had forbidden him to use. And since he was still locked in this embrace, he might as well make himself comfortable and pull his arms from pushing against Crawford's broad chest to wrap them around the older man again.

"So what do you suggest?" Yohji asked. "If you're right, you know this man better than I do."

Crawford opened his mouth, but closed it again. Yohji growled in frustration. He really hated it when people pointed out problems without giving constructive advice on how to fix them.

"Well," Yohji said firmly, pressing his advantage to take control again, "if Kotoku knows who you are, he will assume this has Takatori's backing, and may be more giving. He seems to rely on that kind of help to prevent legal interference. If he doesn't know who you are, you're simply my latest partner."

"How many have you been through?" Crawford asked. He released Yohji, uncomfortable with Yohji's sudden acceptance of the cold grip Crawford had had him in. 

"Including you? Two. But he doesn't know that. I've usually got some tag-a-long when I'm here anyway, because I don't trust him. I want a witness around, you know?" Yohji make the most of Crawford's action to pull away and lead Crawford by the hand through the writhing mass of bodies.

"You don't mind putting innocent strangers in life-threatening situations?" Crawford frowned. That wasn't something he'd expected of the youth.

Yohji offered him a one-shouldered shrug. "Hardly innocent, and such pretty faces Kotoku would shoot himself for removing from the mortal plane. Anyway, he's got no reason to. We always chat in English, so my 'friend' doesn't know what's going on."

"How does Kotoku know your friend doesn't speak English?" Crawford demanded. Kudoh couldn't have been relying on luck to such an extent. Crawford refused to believe it. The young man was smart, even if he made a point of giving an impression of being quite the opposite.

"He checks, of course. I always have the friend wandering around down here with me first, so he can make a few checks."

"I'm American."

"I know."

"I speak English."

"He speaks weapon, and that gun in your waistband is yelling pretty damn loudly."

They reached a nondescript door tucked between a metal crate and a scaffolding pole. It was painted to match the wall and looked like tired chipboard, but when it opened Crawford saw about two inches of steel backing it up and a complex mechanical locking system withdrawing in clicks and whirs. Yohji squeezed his hand and released it, tucking thumbs into belt loops and swaggering like a cowboy into the dim interior.

With a tired sigh, Crawford followed the posturing PI into a den of depravity unlike any... well, like most he'd known. But still, it wasn't something he enjoyed.


	5. Chapter Four

Chapter Four 

Yohji accepted a lit cigarette as he stepped through the neon bands that circled the tight hallway. Miscellaneous lackeys hovered in alcoves and around corners, watching him. Some of them knew him by name now, others knew him by hat. They all knew his confidence. No one but the foolhardy would walk into Kotoku's domain without even the gift of a boy.

He opened the final door without stopping, causing bodyguards to leap back or risk bloody noses. Crawford followed smartly, expensive shoes tapping in time with Yohji's softer steps. They stopped with Crawford just behind Yohji's left shoulder, where any good apprentice or bodyguard traditionally stood, especially if they were right handed, and Yohji tipped his hat with a disarming grin.

"Kotoku-san! It's been far too long."

"Always so western," Kotoku frowned at him. "What is wrong with a simple 'good day' and a polite bow these days? Everyone is so western."

"It's what all the cool kids are doing," Yohji grinned, helping himself to a plush blue velvet egg chair. Crawford stood behind him. Bluff and blag it, exaggerate and animate. If he looked like he knew what he was doing, maybe no one would guess he didn't, any more than he had previously. Appearance was everything. Experience counted for little.

A boy barely adolescent sidled over to Yohji's chair. He reached out and ran his fingers through fine hair, neither accepting nor refusing Kotoku's loan. To do one would be presumptuous, the other rude.

"No doubt you want to talk," the portly businessman waved a hand. "Always talk."

"Always," Yohji grinned. "How could I sit in silence here?"

"As long as you are silent out there," Kotoku said threateningly.

"Naturally," Yohji said, feigning boredom. He missed his coat and its lining of whiskey and bourbon bottles, but he'd had to leave that in Crawford's car. The bouncers would never have let him in with that much alcohol.

"So, what is it today?" the slaver asked, switching to an incongruously fluent English, considering his apparent love of 'tradition'. Later, Crawford would learn that Yohji spoke it even better, but for now the young man played down his talent. 

"Ransomers," Yohji rolled his eyes.

"Can't you ever ask me about anything interesting?" the older man whined peevishly.

"Oh, it gets better," Yohji smiled, like a snake. "We're talking about a ransom attempt that happened about a decade ago."

"You think I have reason to remember that far back?" Kotoku laughed.

"When we're talking about Takatori Mamoru, I don't think there's a person of age in this country who doesn't remember."

"Mamoru..." Kotoku's eyes lit up. "I'd wondered what you were doing with Crawford-san."

"Pretty little accessory, isn't he?" Yohji grinned, reaching one hand back to tug down the mesh shirt and brush the firm skin of Crawford's abdomen.

"But who involved you?" Kotoku mused.

"Someone in the family," Yohji said. "This isn't getting back to the head of the family, my friend, not if you value your life and the lives of your boys. Oh yes, and mine and his," Yohji gestured lazily to Crawford and his self. 

"What do you know so far?" Kotoku asked.

It took a lot of self-control to keep form shouting 'ah-hah' out loud. Instead, Yohji just smiled very very smugly. "Why don't you tell me what _you_ know, Kotoku-san? After all, you've already implied there's more to know than what the general public know."

"I don't know the kidnappers," Kotoku said calmly. "What other cards do you think I'm holding?"

"The rescuer."

There was a tense silence.

"It wouldn't mean anything to you," Kotoku said carefully.

"It might to me," Crawford leant over Yohji's shoulder.

"Kritiker." 

"Weiss?" Crawford asked hungrily.

Kotoku laughed incredulously. "You think those boys are that old?"

"Their alternative job certainly didn't look it," Yohji said.

"Oh, so you've encountered them?" Kotoku smiled. "Well, now you have something to trade."

"Trade?" Yohji asked. "You've told me enough. Kritiker lifted the boy."

"You don't know who Persia is," Crawford added confidently. "You don't know their motivations."

"You don't, in fact, know anything else of use to us," Yohji said.

"I know you've got no other chance of getting out alive from here," Kotoku smirked, "other than by telling me what I want to know."

The boy who'd been nestled against Yohji's hand pulled away carefully. Yohji let his hand drop into his lap. Crawford had straightened up, tucking hands behind his back. The guards at the back of the room could see him brush the butt of his gun, and they drew their own. Any movement now would have to be fast, and would probably result in their deaths any way.

"You offered your information free of charge," Yohji sighed. "You always did, to me. I thought I was special." He pouted playfully.

Kotoku shrugged. "You were, but you grew up."

Crawford stiffened. His eyes flicked back and forth between the two individuals.

"I could have a hundred women here testifying I'm still a pretty face," Yohji grinned. It was hard to keep it there, and suspected it looked as fake as it felt. These were memories he didn't care to dig up, though he was as happy as Kotoku to play them up for Crawford's benefit. Maybe he didn't realise it, but he was the most important man in the room. He was their connection to the Takatoris, their most knowledgeable source on Kritiker, the best-trained killer in the room. Kotoku wanted Crawford to think him ruthless, to frighten him, while Yohji was playing for absolute support. Crawford had connections to this man anyway, and he had all the information Yohji had to bargain with.

Suddenly, Yohji felt a wash of real confidence run over him. Kotoku was playing the wrong game. Crawford didn't intimidate easily, couldn't be intimated at all. Kotoku wanted to appear cold, ruthless, and more than a little sadistic. He wanted Yohji to look weak and dependant.

"Kotoku, friend, you hurt me," Yohji spread his hands. "What have I done to you? You have always been a good friend."

"You tried to turn me over to the police," Kotoku said frankly.

"And you had me beaten up and almost killed," Yohji said smarmily.

"I want your information. Weiss are a risk to me," Kotoku said. "Two of my contacts have already died due to their activities."

"But they are part of Kritiker, yes?" Yohji shrugged. "They'll just replace them. They hardly strike me as an organisation to value human life." He smirked sardonically.

"I want Weiss dead," Kotoku said bluntly. "Tell me where."

To refuse outright was death, but to agree...

"No."

Yohji swivelled in his chair to stare at Crawford. Kotoku didn't seem surprised, so Yohji fought his own shock at the abrupt negative his partner had offered.

"Ask again and my employer will learn of this. He already has a group working on the Weiss situation. To make your own attempt implies insufferable presumption on your behalf, Mister Kotoku."

"Your group, I presume. He places too much trust in you. What would it hurt to have a little back up? A plan B?" Kotoku laughed softly. "But then, I suppose, if you know where they are I have little to concern myself with."

"Precisely." Crawford gripped the back of Yohji's unorthodox chair and leant over his blond head. "Why waste your own people when mine will do it for you?"

Kotoku smiled and leant back in his seat. "Fine, good good. We are concluded here, yes?"

"I believe so. I wish you could have been of more help," Yohji fumed quietly. "Still, it is almost a lead, and I have worked with less in the past."

"I never knew you so ungrateful, my pretty boy," Kotoku grumbled cheerfully. "It is this Crawford's influence, I am sure. All these western influences, and you so open-minded. No wonder you soak up this rudeness like a sponge."

Yohji laughed. "Have you known me any other way?"

Kotoku shrugged. "True, true enough. Perhaps you are a bad influence on your Mist-ah Crawford."

Yohji smiled at the mocking of Crawford's speech idiosyncrasies. Crawford looked ever so slightly taken aback, which made the two Japanese men share even wider grins. These were old games, well played, the last reminders of favours long worn thin, owed and repaid and owed again. Yohji stood and bowed and took his leave, and Kotoku returned the gesture. Crawford stood iron-pole straight.

"One more thing," Kotoku said as they left the room. "Takatori Saijoh kept it in the family as well, when he left Kritiker."

"One last tidbit? I am honoured," Yohji over-enthused, hands clasped to his heart. Kotoku shook his head at the younger man's antics.

"You're as special as you like to think you are to me," he smiled. "Come back to me, my boy."

"I will send you my own as a gift, one day," Yohji waved his hat extravagantly.

"And where will you find such a child? You're lady friend ran off with a boy named Kase. I know this because I've dealt with him," Kotoku called as the door closed.

Crawford was alarmed at the speed with which Yohji's expression, posture and general mood changed. His shoulders hunched, he wrapped his arms around himself and he stared resolutely at the floor.

"Had to get one last dig in," Yohji muttered. "Always wants the last word."

"Kase? I know that name. Died, recently."

"Really?" Yohji stared at him. "Really?"

"At the hands of Weiss," Crawford said. It was much better to see Yohji smile. "He reported a connection to one of the members. Hidaka Ken, ex J-leaguer. They both were."

"I _know_ that," Yohji snarled. "You think I don't? Such apologetic letters, all about this J-leaguer who saved her life while I was shot and thought her dying in that alley. I thought she was dead! I lay there bleeding and blaming myself for her death and no, this handsome soccer star has swept by and picked her up and-"

"And he's dead now." Crawford smiled, but any chance of recovering Yohji's good mood was gone.

"I want to go home," Yohji said weakly. "You're driving, right? Take me home. We're done here."

"Yes, but we're not going home," Crawford said firmly. "Well, if you can really stand to think of that dank office as home."

"Are we going to your place?" Yohji asked, envisioning palatial penthouses with western style furniture and expensive American imports. Yohji wasn't sure what would have been imported, but it would be done at great expense, he was sure. Crawford wasn't the type to get something cheap when he could buy it expensively and make certain people know he'd gone that extra mile to get it.

Like the BMW he was currently being led into. Ooh, coat on the back seat. Ignoring the disgusted look Crawford gave him Yohji dug out a bottle of whiskey and down a fiery mouthful. That was better, burning away the memories. He slumped down in the leather seat, nursing the bottle and staring out through a rain-soaked windscreen.

"Wow, it's really coming down out there," he mumbled.

"We're not going far," Crawford said shortly.

"How much did you have to drink?" Yohji said, taking another large swig from his cornered bottle.

"Not much," Crawford said. "Some of us don't have that problem."

Yohji sniffed at him. He didn't have a drink problem. Oh, it wasn't that old lie about being able to stop any time he wanted - he knew it would be far harder than that - but even though he drank it had never been a problem. Never interfered with his work. Never interfered with his play, when it came to that. In fact, he'd have a problem if he didn't drink.

No one ever seemed to understand that, no matter how hard he explained. Of course, it only really made sense to him when he had a cushion between himself and the sober world. Right now, Crawford was the sober world, and the wonderful thing about drinking was you didn't care when the sober world glowered at you for it.

Although, if he didn't drink, he wouldn't be glowered at. He'd have to give that some thought. He liked Crawford better when he wasn't frowning. He could be funny, even. Humour was good. And he bore no resemblance whatsoever to Asuka, not even when he kissed. Now that was something worth pursuing.

They were pulling up outside a motel Yohji knew well. Did Crawford think there was something worth pursuing as well?

"This will have to do," Crawford sneered at the stuttering neon. "At least it's not by-the-hour."

"No," Yohji agreed amiably. Whiskey always made him amiable. Bourbon made him forgetful, which was always good, but best saved for when he was really desperate, and beer made him horny. He tended not to drink beer much now. Spenser. Spenser was a detective who drank beer, he remembered, like an alcoholic fish. Like a tour of the breweries of Europe and America. Maybe one day he'd play the Spenser drinking game. He'd liked Bourbon too. Yohji had always felt a certain fondness for the character for that.

"Well, come on."

"Yes," Yohji smiled.

Crawford took him by the shoulder and steered him roughly into the dirty foyer.

"Two single rooms for the night," Crawford snapped at the acne-plagued boy behind the desk.

"Yohji-san!" the boy enthused.

"Mito-kun," Yohji grinned. "As the man says, please."

"We don't have any," the boy shrugged. "No single rooms."

Crawford slammed a fistful of yen onto the desk. "Find some." Yohji was surprised he wasn't more discrete. Oh, right, it was two o'clock in the morning. Not much need for discretion. Well, if that was the case: Yohji took another swallow from the bottle. Mito put on his pleading face and Yohji handed over the bottle easily.

"None left," he shrugged. "It's weird. We got a double." he downed almost as much in one swallow as Yohji had in the whole journey. Crawford looked like someone had force-fed him manure.

"I do not want a double room. I want two singles." Crawford was almost apoplectic.

"We have no singles. Look, I'll show you the book," Mito said, getting angry. "See? No singles. None. All taken."

"Do you even do single rooms?" Yohji asked curiously.

"Two or three," Mito grinned. "Mind if I finished this off?"

"Sure. I've got another," Yohji said generously.

"I know you do," Mito laughed. "So, a twin room?"

"Yeah, that'll do," Yohji said before Crawford could object. "He's hardly going to fork out for two doubles, is he? Bloody expensive car, bloody obviously expensive car, but two rooms? Hell, he won't even pay for a decent hotel, so why pay for two rooms?"

"Stop rambling," Crawford snapped at Yohji as he thrust more money at the spotty boy. "Give us the key and let's get this over with."

Mito looked sulky. "I think he's tired," Yohji leant on the desk and consoled him. "Probably not someone you want tired. Let's get him some sleep, 'kay?" Mito handed over the key reluctantly. "Good boy. You'll get some repeat business, be sure."

"Of you? I always am. Thanks for the whiskey, Private Investigator Kudoh."

Yohji ruffled his hair and led Crawford up the tired stairs. Glancing at the key, he opened the first door on the first floor they came to.

"Ooh, this is nice," Yohji beamed.

"You're joking?" Crawford asked.

"For this place? No. See, it's even been cleaned. No stains on the sheets." Yohji collapsed onto one of the futons and began to dig for a bottle of bourbon. He could never sleep unless he let his memories go first. Send them to sleep, and he'd follow, sooner or later.

"I shall not sleep at all," Crawford declared, staring at the futon as though he thought it would rise up and bite him. _Well, some of the second floor mattresses might_, Yohji reflected.

Yohji looked at him. "Here," he held out the bourbon. "You need it more than I do."

He hoped Crawford would appreciate that nature of the sacrifice. Hopefully he'd have enough that he wouldn't wake up when Yohji did. Most people found it hard to sleep through screams of "Asuka!" but you could never tell with Crawford. For example, Yohji hadn't expected Crawford to take the bottle, but it was gone and Crawford was sitting on the futon.

"G'night," Yohji smiled.

"Good night," he heard faintly. "You ridiculous idealistic drunk."

* * * 

It turned out screams of "Asuka" did wake Crawford, even before they woke Yohji. The American was shaking him and Yohji grabbed those strong arms in a rictus of sleep-confused madness for a second. Older man and younger clung to each other for a few brief moments, a strange embrace. Yohji panted himself back to reality, blinking away sleep and welcoming the usual hangover. Crawford was giving him an alarmed look. For a moment, Yohji mistook it for concern.

"Are you alright?" Crawford asked brusquely. Yohji pulled himself into a sitting position and Crawford sat back on his heels, looking at him shrewdly.

"I don't operate until I've had coffee," Yohji said. "Coffee."

"So we do have something in common," Crawford mused. He held out a paper cup. "I guessed as much."

"Black?" Crawford nodded. "Lots of sugar?" Crawford nodded again, smiling slightly. "Hot!" Crawford nodded smugly.

"Didn't your mother teach you not gulp your drink?" he asked.

Yohji sucked in cool air, then down the rest of the coffee. It hurt, but it sure as hell woke him up quickly. Crawford looked slightly impressed. Definite improvement over disgust, Yohji felt.

"Any more?" he asked hopefully.

Crawford didn't reply. He wasn't looking at Yohji now, with his disgust or admiration. Well, maybe there was a touch of admiration, when he did glance at the younger man. He seemed to be trying so hard to keep his eyes on Yohji's face, though Yohji doubted he had the faintest idea that Yohji had said a word to him.

See, the flipside of those horrific nightmares about Asuka was the raging hard-on he occasionally got. And, well, with Crawford kneeling on the sheets and moving around and Yohji only having the clothes he'd worn and not wanting to get them too rumpled... Well.

"I'd be insulted if I didn't know your boyfriend would kill both of us," Yohji said.

It was worth it for the blush. Oh, he may have destroyed any chance at getting on with the man, but dammit, he'd made him blush. He was human.

"Could you pass me my trousers?"


	6. Chapter Five

Chapter Five 

Crawford was still finding it hard to look Yohji in the eye. He kept thinking about Hirofumi. He kept thinking that he hated him.

"What's the plan?" Yohji asked over an early lunch in a café near the flower shop. "We need to learn more about them. You have connections."

"I'm still pondering what your 'friend'," and Crawford spat the word because he found it too easy to believe that the bastard had really used the young Yohji in that way, "told us about Saijoh Takatori."

"He had two sons. One is your boss, the other, presumably, is the head of Kritiker. And Police Chief. Interesting." Yohji shrugged. "Do you suppose Reiji knows?"

"I doubt it," Crawford said, but he didn't sound certain.

"We need to know more about Kritiker," Yohji said decisively. "Kritiker were involved in recovering Mamoru, and now we find they're headed by his uncle. That's too much like coincidence to be so."

"Those florists are Weiss," Crawford said thoughtfully. "Weiss are the killing group, clearly. They must be getting information from somewhere."

"We need to work out who their contact is," Yohji agreed. "Stake out the shop. Watch for customers who appear after hours, or just as it's closing."

"We could bug it," Crawford suggested.

"We ought to try and get a floor plan," Yohji added. "I'm guessing those upstairs floors are just bedrooms, but there could be a back room or something. Somewhere they can discuss assassinations in private."

"If we break in tonight we can explore," Crawford suggested.

"Not if they're in. No, we ought to wait until they're out hunting some poor sod. I wonder if we can send them after Kotoku?"

"Oh, I hope so," Crawford smiled.

"Didn't like him much?" Yohji frowned.

Crawford stared moodily at the cheesecake on Yohji's plate. "Last night, the two of you implied you were one of his, uh, boys?" he said carefully.

"Oh, no," Yohji smiled. "Well, not one of _those_ boys. We didn't meet until I was in my later teens. But he was the first to employ me, and he kept me off the streets for a while." The smile faltered, but he didn't let it drop. "He's a nice man, but not a good one."

"The two qualities are rarely combined," Crawford observed. "Still, I'm pleased it wasn't as bad as I had thought."

"That's nice," Yohji said distantly. He picked at the cheesecake.

"What shall we do about Weiss?" Crawford asked.

Yohji shrugged. "You said last night that they were your jurisdiction. Set your assassins on them. Let there be a war of death dealers. A battle of proactive defence."

"I can't see Hirofumi being overjoyed to learn that rather than reunite him with his baby brother, I had the boy killed. It would be best all round if we can bring the boy back to the Takatoris. Kritiker can be eradicated and the family brought back together. A nice Sunday afternoon special for others to nod and smile over at dinner."

"Sunday afternoon special?" Yohji frowned.

"Family viewing," Crawford shrugged.

"So we want the boy to go home. To a family like that."

Crawford grimaced. "I do see your point. Are you willing to stake your life on it though?"

"I don't suppose Hirofumi would believe us if we said he'd got the wrong boy?"

"He wouldn't have brought you in if he wasn't certain." Crawford sat back in his chair. "And just to make you even more reluctant, I might hazard a guess as to where they saw each other. Hirofumi has hunting weekends with other political wannabes, some times, up in the mountains. Only, he hunts..." 

Crawford trailed off. What was he thinking, telling Kudoh this kind of thing? It would get them all killed, or worse. Though the youth would probably be shot once he'd completed his job anyway. It seemed like a hideous waste to Crawford. Maybe he might as well tell him. Let him die for a real reason.

"Pardon?" Yohji stared at him. "Die for what?"

_Too much time around Schuldig,_ Crawford grimaced. Thinking and talking blurred, sometimes.

"Hirofumi will probably kill you anyway, when we're done. Or you might be one of the subjects for his next hunting party."

"You never did finish that sentence," Yohji observed dryly. "So he hunts people?"

"Doesn't the inevitability of your death concern you?" Crawford frowned.

"Hasn't sunk in yet," Yohji dismissed him. "So, bugs. I've got my camera, but my last microphone was trampled by a giraffe." At Crawford's incredulous look, he added, "No lie. Strange case, that one."

"I'll take your word for it."

"So what have you got?"

"No giraffes, I'm afraid, but I know somewhere I ought to be able to get what we're looking for," Crawford smiled. "I'll go this afternoon."

"And I?"

"You stay here and try and work out if their contact visits."

"You mean I get to sit in the park and watch school girls traipse in and out. Wonderful. People will think I'm a pervert." Yohji grinned at his third cup of coffee. "Almost restores your faith in mankind, doesn't it?"

"You mean they're not as stupid as they look?" Crawford snorted.

Yohji looked around. "Not hard, is it?"

"Have another cup of coffee," Crawford tossed a handful of change on the table, "and start keeping your eyes open. I think we should do this tonight, whether they're in or not. We've got no idea how much time we have. For all we know Hirofumi might demand the results by tomorrow."

"Which one of us does this for a living?" Yohji raised an eyebrow at Crawford's commanding tone.

"I'm sorry, I hadn't realised you made a living out of this. I guess I must have failed to noticed the well furnished apartment you keep in the bottom draw of your desk."

"Oh hah hah," Yohji rolled his eyes. Crawford sighed theatrically and left him to his caffeine addiction.

* * *

Yohji waited until Crawford had left him to park around the corner before he took a swig from his bottle of scotch. He knew the American wouldn't have approved, but this was how he worked. Alcohol gave you an inflated sense of self-confidence. After Asuka left him, well, that self-same self-confidence had plummeted, and without a drop or too he was too distracted fighting the urge to curl up in a ball and die to get much done. Yohji took a deep breath and watched his hands until they stopped shaking. Good.

The skeleton key was old and didn't work on most locks these days, but the flower shop fire escape wasn't much newer. He had lock picks clenched between his teeth, but he always tried the key first. He grinned as the door swung outwards, lock picks flashing like horizontal metal teeth from between his lips.

A slow beeping warned him a security alarm was gearing up to go off. He grinned and shook his head. Weiss, it seemed, were worried about having a security system that would make people suspicious. People would wonder why florists needed the same alarm system as the local bank. They depended on anonymity, on not being recognised. Oh, and their ability to kill people. That probably helped them sleep more easily at night.

With a flick of the wrist he pulled the cover off of the alarm and pulled the appropriate wire without having to think about it. He'd memorised every standard alarm a long time ago, as he had done most basic locks. When money was tight, well, there were people out there with a few too many ornaments, right, and some shops that earned a bit more than they really needed at the end of the day.

Yohji stared at the disarmed alarm blankly. He wondered when he'd fallen. It wasn't the lack of money, or even the lack of Asuka. He'd put The Dream first and was sacrificing even strict moral codes to keep it alive. He'd stolen, he'd killed, he'd made deals with devils...

He wasn't even aware of his actions as he took another swallow of scotch.

Looking around, he was in a storeroom. Through one door he could see the front of the shop, and to his left was a stairway. Up led to bedrooms, Yohji was certain. He'd been watching them from the park, under pretence of bird spotting. That excuse tended to get him odd looks in Tokyo, which it probably never had Phillip Marlowe. He had binoculars and was aiming them at a shop full of schoolgirls. Yes. _Very_ odd looks.

So down it was. Down made more sense anyway. Fewer reasons to go into the basement. Yohji made his way past potted plants and curled up hoses and already knotted ribbons waiting to be stuck onto crinkled cellophane until he reached the foot of the stairs. The door in front of him was locked, and Yohji wasn't surprised to find a far more sophisticated alarm system attached to it. He wouldn't be surprised if there were cameras, either.

The alarm he could deal with. It was triggered to go off when tampered with, but Yohji knew this make had a reset button just under the casing. Easy to touch with his long fingers. It was just pressing it before the alarm caught onto the fact the casing was loose that would prove difficult. Yohji bit his lip. Pressure sensors, that was it. Now, where would they be? It was something the manufacturers would know, so they could disarm it.

Ah, of course. Around the edges, where it would be easy to reach to turn it off, but hard to spot. Tracing the edge gently with the tips of his fingers, a soft brush that would have any woman writhing, he found areas on both sides with a different texture to the rest. They were far apart, far enough that most people wouldn't be able to touch both at once. Even Yohji's long fingers couldn't quite reach both over the raised plastic case of the alarm. He'd need one hand to get the case off. He'd need the pressure pads prepared before he even started unscrewing the case, which meant he needed to grow a few extra pairs of hands.

In the movies, there was always some dumb broad with chewing gum, or the detective himself would have a wad of chewing tobacco. Yohji had tried that, and found himself gagging. He'd stick to cigarettes, thank you very much, even if they were no use in a situation like this.

Yohji smiled to himself. Those ribbons. All those neatly tied bows and intricate rosettes. You got that double-sided tape and those gooey sticky squares holding them to paper and plastic and pots. Taking the steps two at a time he found himself back in the storeroom. Going through the carefully organised drawers and boxes Yohji unearthed what he was looking for. Unable to help himself, he nabbed one of the bows as well and stuck it to the brim of his hat.

Back downstairs he applied the sticky pads to the pressure squares. It didn't have to be hard - as long as there was something touching them it ought to be okay. Unscrewing the case he took a moment to push the pads down a little firmer, sliding them under where the edges of the case had been. Pulling the case away a few centimetres he slid a finger under it and searched hastily for the button that would stop the already insistent whine. There was a click and Yohji breathed a sigh of relief. He keyed in a random code (they'd know he'd been, but there was no help for that) and opened the door. 

As he stepped into the room he caught sight of the camera as it swung to see him. He ducked automatically and scrambled down yet more stairs on his hands and knees to roll behind the closest piece of furniture. He had two options. He could act like a thief, and take the computer, or he could simply place the bug.

Or he could nick the video from the machine tucked in the corner opposite him. It was happily recording everything the camera found. Yohji grinned. He'd rewind it on his way out and try and escape before the camera spotted him again. There was still the problem of the lock, but if he left the case dangling they might think it an aborted attempt at entry, especially if the video showed nothing. He glanced at the skeleton key. Yes, leave that snapped off in the door.

The room itself was relatively bare. Tucked behind the stairs was a computer, and in the centre of the room sat a large sofa and a wide screen television. The computer looked new and expensive, but still shop bought, and the television had no aerial. After a bit of experimentation Yohji confirmed his suspicion that it wasn't set up to receive any outside broadcasts, and was linked solely to a video. There was a tape in there, which Yohji stuck into a deep pocket for further investigation. They might notice it was missing, but he'd have to risk that.

After some careful deliberation, he stuck the small radio transmitter to the back of the television screen. The sound it would pick up might be slightly distorted, but colour wise it blended perfectly and the power in the television ought to make it hard to pick up with a casual EM scan. Satisfied with his work, Yohji had one last scout around. There was a football abandoned in one dark corner, and he laughed to find a pair of boxer shorts lost in the back of the couch. The sofa had seen some action, it seemed.

He stalked over to the CCTV recorder and studied the machine. It was surprisingly basic, but the camera was well hidden and the recorder tucked away, so chances were a casual thief wouldn't have bothered. He hit rewind and listened to the satisfying whirr. There might be a timer on the picture, but he'd just have to hope no one noticed the jump in time. Yohji waited until the camera was scanning the other side of the room, hit record, and sprinted up the stairs. Diving through the door it slammed behind him, loud in the night silence.

Outside he sat gasping for breath. That had been close. Was still close. If these guys really were assassins that could easily have woken them. Checking the door Yohji quickly jammed and broke his old skeleton key in the look (goodbye, old friend) and pulled the case from the alarm a little further. 

Before he went upstairs he had another drink to steady his nerves. The bottle seemed rather emptier than it ought to be, and he frowned. Well, he wasn't drunk yet. He climbed the stairs slowly. There was a sound from above.

Yohji thought fast. As steps came down the steps he made a decision that would plot the course of the rest of the night. The stair windows over looked the alley he'd made his entry from, and he'd never manage to lock the door before whoever it was got there. They might think him simply a thief, but these people were bound to be paranoid.

Aya stormed into the flower shop, sword raised. 

"Hi! I want these flowers please!" Yohji held out a messy bouquet. He took a swig of Scotch, careful to swallow less than it looked like. He grinned.

"You... what?" Aya stared at him.

"I want these flowers please!"

"We're not open," Aya said slowly.

"I want these flowers please now!" Yohji held them out insistently. "Please!"

"We're not open," Aya repeated more firmly.

"I need flowers now," Yohji said, letting his arm fall back to his side. He frowned at Aya. "Please?"

"We're not open," Aya sighed. "How did you get in?"

"Aya? What's going on?" a voice came from upstairs.

"I'm buying flowers!" Yohji piped up.

"A drunk guy," Aya said disapprovingly. Ken appeared, wearing soccer shorts and a bemused expression.

"How did he get in?"

"I don't know," the redhead said suspiciously.

Yohji took another drink from the bottle. He frowned at it. Alarmingly close to empty. Well, might as well finish it off. He needed this act to be convincing.

Maybe it hadn't been so close to empty. He coughed and gagged, choking on the burning alcohol. Coughed so hard he lost his balance and stumbled backwards, knocking over a table and collapsing backwards in a spray of soil and stems. He sneezed. 

"Are you okay?" Ken stood over him.

"I want to buy flowers," Yohji said with mock forlornness. "It's late and I need flowers because it's our anniversary and I screwed up. And I'm drunk, so I need even more flowers because I'm screwing up really really badly."

"I'll say," Ken said. He held out a hand to pull Yohji up, and Yohji used it to pull the brunette over. He needed to continue to appear off balance. He quickly stifled the thought that suggested he hadn't actually meant to pull the brunette over so violently.

"Sorry," Yohji mumbled. 

"Kudoh?" a voice hissed from the still open side door.

Shit. He was still sober enough to know this was very bad timing on Crawford's behalf. Sober enough? Sober, full stop. It took more than a few mouthfuls to get him drunk. He couldn't be more than tipsy right now.

"You!" Aya held the katana to the American's chin. "Die!"

"Don't kill my boyfriend!" Yohji called out in alarm. There was a moment of uncertainty as he believed himself for a second. Oh, right, not actually buying flowers. Not actually in love with Crawford.

Aya didn't move. Ken clambered to his feet and moved to stand near Aya. There was a clatter on the stairs and the youngest assassin was present as well, the smile of yesterday replaced by a look of utter professionalism. That look made him look like the man who had hired Yohji. It was hard to deny the family resemblance.

"Don't kill my boyfriend," Yohji said again. "I'm buying flowers." He pulled himself upright. The tattered flowers he held clenched in one fist suddenly did seem woefully inadequate, and he grabbed a few more that he'd knocked off the table. He stumbled over to the cash register and stood there, rocking on his heels and whistling.

"We're not open," Omi said slowly. "If you come back in the morning..."

"I need the flowers now," Yohji said with exaggerated patience. "That's my boyfriend who's getting a very close shave, and I need to apologise to him. I'm drunk, I've wrecked your shop, and I've had him chasing me around the city all night. There aren't any chocolate shops open."

Aya slowly withdrew the katana, but only into a battle ready stance. Crawford didn't move. Yohji felt sick, but he kept the drunken smile plastered over his face. Omi picked his way through the carnage to the till and opened it. Yohji handed over a fistful of money and watched it disappear. He sighed and dug out the bottle. He went to take a drink, and stared at the empty bottle. It had been full, new, before this night started.

"Shit," he mumbled under his breath. "I'm really drunk."

"Are you really with this man?" Aya demanded of Crawford.

"Yes," Crawford said. "And he knows nothing of all this."

"Hardly a healthy relationship, then," Ken smirked.

"Let us leave," Crawford said calmly.

"I'm drunk," Yohji repeated.

"I'm not sure we can," Omi said from by the till. "I mean, you know where we live."

"So move," Crawford snapped. "Do I care where you live? I could have found that out any time I wished, with the trail Kritiker leaves. I want to take my lover and go home. Feel free to follow me, if you like."

Yohji had stumbled towards the shop door and was sitting between two rows of tables, pulling petals off the flowers he'd just bought. God, he was drunk. Drunk enough not to remember that he'd already had a lot to drink, drunk enough to drink more, drunk enough to not realise he was drunk until he had the proof in front of his eyes.

"Kudoh?" Crawford called out. "We're going."

"No you're not," Ken balled his fists. 

Crawford gave him a condescending look. "You don't know the first thing about unarmed combat," he observed.

"The bottle shouldn't be empty," Yohji announced dully.  "I drank too much." He stared at the empty bottle. Pretty, in its own way, like a vase. 

"I'm not unarmed," Aya pointed out, drawing Crawford's attention again.

"I thought Weiss had honour. You would kill an unarmed man?" Crawford raised a superior eyebrow.

"Proactive stance," Yohji mumbled. The flowers drooped in his hands. He'd screwed up. He'd been trusted to do this and he'd screwed up really badly, and now Crawford was involved, forced to confront a group of men who wanted him dead. Yohji understood that he'd be killed when he completed his task, or if he didn't complete it, but Crawford ought to survive. 

"Let me take my boyfriend and go," Crawford said, voice softer, glasses off. "If I'd known you were here I wouldn't have let him come the other day."

From the far side of the room, gentle sobbing could be heard.

"Another time, Weiss," Crawford said tiredly. He pushed past the stunned young men and began glancing under tables as he searched for the source of the crying. He found Yohji with his back to an urn, pushing the flowers he had bought into the empty scotch bottle. Only one of them still had any petals.

Yohji stared up at him. "I'm sorry," he said. He stared down at the flowers he'd just bought. With a hopeless expression he held out the makeshift vase.

Crawford smiled reassuringly and accepted it, putting it into the pocket of his suit jacket. Yohji reeked of alcohol, but Crawford stoically ignored at as he looped his arms under the younger man's armpits and pulled him upright. Yohji collapsed bonelessly against him, melting into his arms and sobbing brokenly onto his shoulder.

"It's okay," Crawford soothed. "You did well."

"I screwed up," Yohji swallowed. "I'm drunk."

"I've got used to that fact of life already," Crawford said dryly, pulling away slightly. Yohji stared at him, lip trembling. He really wasn't at all attractive when he was upset. Crawford sighed. "Come on, love, let's get you back to the hotel. You'll feel better after you've had some sleep."

"I'll never drink again," Yohji said abruptly. The earnestness in his tone surprised Crawford. "I promise. I won't screw up again. No more alcohol."

"You'll take that back in the morning," Crawford sighed. "Come _on_. Before these nice gentleman change their mind and decapitate both of us." 

Yohji resisted his tugging though. Crawford glowered at him, but Yohji seemed oblivious. He was going through his pockets. Weiss watched in surprise as bottle after bottle emerged and lined up amongst the dahlias. Crawford laughed at their surprise. Yohji's coat seemed to have the same properties as Mary Poppin's carpetbag to the untrained observer.

Yohji turned to the shocked teens. "You can keep these," he told them. "Some of the bourbon is expensive, and god only knows how I afforded the mature scotch. It ought to make up the cost of wrecking your shop. I'm sorry."

"Uh, thanks," Omi stuttered.

"You'll have to make certain these guys save you a bottle until you're old enough to drink it," Yohji winked at him. He hiccupped.

"Are you ready to go now?" Crawford asked softly. Yohji nodded. He leant against the older man and wrapped an arm around his waist. Crawford staggered under the sudden weight, and steered the off balance young man back through the door they'd originally come through. Weiss let them go, though the tip of the katana followed them.

The grey light of dawn made navigating the alley a little easier, and as the streetlights flickered of Crawford pushed Yohji's almost inert body into the back of his car. After a moment's deliberation he crawled in after him, and settled along the wide seat. He pulled Yohji's body into his lap and wrapped his arms around the younger man. Yohji sighed and nestled against his chest. He still stank of alcohol, and the kiss he gave Crawford was messy and wet. Crawford smiled and pulled Yohji's hat over his unfocused eyes. Taking off his glasses, he settled down to sleep.


	7. Chapter Six

Chapter Six 

"So you only drank coffee because your 'heroes' did, and they don't have to deal with caffeine addictions or jittery nerves or having to stop every half hour to let it out again."

"You're probably right. Can't stand it." Yohji shrugged. "Always been more of a tea person, truth be told, but who ever heard of a tea-drinking PI?"

"Sherlock Holmes?"

You laughed in submission. "Still, coffee was always one better than the bourbon." He stared at the faintly green liquid in the thin cup. His fingers had turned red.

"Did you mean it when you said you'd stop drinking?" Crawford put down his paper mug and stared hard at Yohji.

"I think I have to," Yohji said softly. "I've got too many reasons to hate myself as it is; I can't afford to inflict another one on myself."

"Last night didn't go too badly," Crawford said awkwardly. "You did get the bug placed, right?"

"Yep. They have a room downstairs with a large screen and a computer and various other things that suggested to me it might be their briefing room. Stuck it to the back of the television." Yohji chewed his lip. "Expensive stuff."

"So we achieved our objective," Crawford said in a satisfied voice. The attempt at praise went right over Yohji's head.

"They recognised you." Yohji said it like he was commenting on particularly bad weather. After all, both were a reason to be a gloomy, and both were blatantly obvious to all participants in the conversation. On that note, it _was_ raining, which was why they were sitting inside the café this time.

"Yes. They'll refuse to believe it's a coincidence, naturally," Crawford observed with equally acknowledged obviousness.

"It could have been. But they know your face now, and you theirs. Someone's going to die, aren't they?" Yohji said bitterly.

"You don't like being reminded of what I do for a living," Crawford sighed. "I could make it worse, if you like."

"I'd rather you didn't. I keep remembering that you're attached and I'm straight, and the sexual tension is confusing the hell out of me. I don't want to have to hate you as well." Yohji said dully.

"I was beginning to think I was the only one," Crawford smiled.

"What, hating you?"

"Don't play stupid," Crawford told him. "You know, Hirofumi will have us both killed." It seemed to be the day for stating the obvious.

"We haven't given him that excuse yet," Yohji said firmly. "What do you see in that prick?"

"Power."

"Ah." Yohji smiled, but it turned into a grimace as the increasingly heavy rain pounding on tin shutters reminded him that his hangover was still angry with him. "But you work for his father."

"I'm trying to keep all bases covered," Crawford said awkwardly.

"Reiji not inclined?" Yohji asked, grinning.

"I don't intend to risk my life to find out," Crawford said. "Besides, he looks like a koala."

"How very shallow of you," Yohji laughed. "Imagine how he must feel, being rejected for those silly sideburns alone, when you could reject him for so many other reasons."

Crawford smiled and shook his head. A very different Kudoh Yohji sat in front of him today. He had tea instead of coffee, his coat was free of bottles (and fit much better for it) and his hat still had a plastic ribbon stuck to it. He was smiling and looking straight at Crawford, but whenever Crawford looked away he would too, and that smile would falter. But no nightmares last night; that seemed to have helped. He was hungover, and his back hurt, but he seemed more centred than previously.

"Why did you come?" Yohji asked softly.

"I knew you were going to end up in trouble," Crawford told him truthfully.

"Oh, thank you. It's _so_ good to know I have your trust," Yohji said caustically.

"No, I mean... I had a vision. I saw the future."

"Does it contain buckled jackets and padded walls?"

"I can see the future, short term. It's why I'm so invaluable to Takatori. All of my team have some psychic talent or another." Crawford sighed. "I shouldn't be telling you this."

"Mind if I test your claim?" Yohji asked softly. Crawford blinked at him. He believed?

"When the waitress brings the bill it will have her phone number on it," Crawford told him. He looked at Yohji for a moment, then closed his eyes and concentrated. Reaching for the napkin he wrote a string of digits on it and gave it to Yohji for safekeeping. Yohji smiled.

"Well, I guess we just have to wait now." The smile faltered again. "You shouldn't have come, last night, you know."

"I know now," Crawford said bitterly.

"Why didn't you see that?"

"It's not an exact science."

"They'll check, now. I might have been able to convince them I really was just a drunk guy buying flowers in the early hours of the morning. Now they're going to check. I had to reset the alarm, which is a big clue I was down there and knew how to get in, and I messed about with the tape the CCTV camera was recording to. I knew they'd spot the alarm sooner or later, so I left my key in the lock, but they're going to be thorough now." Yohji stared at the sky through his sunglasses. Dismal day, but with a hangover like this even a night sky would be too bright. 

"They might assume you never got in," Crawford said hopelessly.

"Doubt it, not when they realise_ this_ is missing," Yohji held up the video. Crawford's eyes widened.

"Not bad, Kudoh," he said in restrained admiration. "Stop waving it around, will you?"

Yohji grinned and stuck it back in his coat pocket. "They'll find the bug," he sighed, good mood evaporating again. "They'll see what I did with the security footage and find the tape is missing - I hope it's not just a football match or something or I've really screwed up - and assume the worst."

"You don't think they'd have been a bit suspicious that a drunk guy managed to pick the lock to their shop anyway?" Crawford raised an eyebrow. "And had a skeleton key on him, come to that."

"I was trying to make it look like a failed burglary, but I woke them up. Drunk, you see, and not careful to keeping doors from slamming." Yohji looked disgusted with himself. "I swear I'm never drinking again. No matter how bad it gets."

"No matter how bad what gets?" Crawford frowned.

"Everything. Confidence, memories, nightmares... Everything. Once this is over I'm going out and getting a real job. Data-inputter or something. Anything." Yohji stared at the paper cup of tea like it had personally offended him. "I've given up everything to keep a stupid dream alive. Money, relationships, morals. I've stolen and I've killed because otherwise I have to live in the real world were the police solve crimes and the rich go free and romance is dead."

"Tokyo's the wrong city for that kind of dream," Crawford said softly. "Too modern for a golden age detective. You ought to be stalking the streets of Chicago."

"Just as broke and lonely."

Crawford sighed. "Well, look at it this way: you're going to die before you get the chance anyway. Hirofumi will have you killed."

"He promised he'd pay me and let me go if I did as he asked," Yohji pointed out. "He doesn't know what I've learnt."

"Hirofumi kills people for _fun_," Crawford said bluntly.

"Oh god," the waitress stared at him. "Who _are_ you people?"

"Film buffs," Yohji laughed. "Come on, you didn't think we were talking about a real person, did you?" He grinned at her. "Poor baby, that must have been quite a fright. Let me make it up to you." He held out the last flower, salvaged from the previous night. "Flower for the lady?"

She giggled and clasped it to her chest as she placed their bill in front of them. Yohji watched her walk away, admiring the way her skirt rode up as she walked. Crawford looked away. He wasn't upset that _his_ last flower had just been given to the waitress, not at all. He smacked Yohji's hand in mock disapproval and held up the bill. 

"Fuck," Yohji said. "You really can see the future."

"Let's go watch that video."

"What's going to be on it?"

"Don't make me hate you again."

"White hunters of the night, hunt the futures of the dark beasts!"

"You what?!"

"Well, it explains a lot," Crawford sat back. "They're all thick as pig shit."

Yohji laughed. "You mean they're all as idealistic as I was."

"Was?"

"I said I was going to quit this job, didn't I?" Yohji still didn't look happy, but the line of his mouth was firm. His decision was breaking his heart. He'd spent his whole life trying to live a dying dream. To abandon it... He'd wasted his life. He'd put everything in and was coming out with absolutely nothing. 

"You could leave the country as well," Crawford said casually. Yohji glowered at him through suspiciously watery eyes. Bastard. Asuka was gone, his money was gone, his dream was gone. Kudoh Yohji was gone. 

"So they're getting orders from a silhouette," Yohji said firmly. "I can't say for certain, but I don't think that voice has been altered, except basic mike distortion. I'm going to see if I can find a recording of Shuichi Takatori." They were sitting in his office watching the video on a flickering television screen 'borrowed' from the office downstairs and a VCR that had previously been locked in one of the bottom drawers in Yohji's desk. They were both sitting on the desk, since Yohji's chair was still a heap of kindling on the floor. "Do some comparisons."

"Ah yes. All voices are unique," Crawford nodded approvingly.

"Just before you get carried away, I want to remind you I don't have any of that fancy voice recognition software. I plan to do this by ear."

"Wouldn't stand up in court," Crawford sighed, "but it will have to do. I suppose it's not vital to know whether it really is Shuichi or not."

"How are we picking up broadcasts from that bug of yours?" Yohji asked suddenly. "I hope you remembered to organise that part as well," he added, still stung by Crawford's earlier attitude to all of his recent epiphanies.

Crawford shot him a scathing look. "You're not the only professional here," he said coldly. "I've been doing this since before you were born."

Yohji frowned. "What, when you were under five?" he asked, eyebrow cocked in amusement.

Crawford thought back to the mail order toys and ratty comic books and tried not to look nostalgic. The way Yohji's face softened suggested he hadn't been entirely successful. He sighed.

"We've got about a day's worth of tape. I'd originally assumed we'd have a chance to change it a few times, but that's unlikely now. While you were laying the transmitter I hid the receiver behind the building. They shouldn't find it. I doubt they'll look."

Yohji looked sceptical, but didn't comment. "They'll probably start clearing out anyway," he sighed. "Someone working with their enemy infiltrated not just their base but their secret room. This is exactly what we wanted to avoid, remember?"

"Yes, perfectly well. Hirofumi isn't going to pleased." Crawford grimaced. Maybe it had only been a few days, but he no longer relished the idea of executing the scatty blond. He knew it was in part due to the fact he'd probably be killed as well, but still, most of that initial irritation had long since won off and the grudging respect he had for the man was growing into a genuine fondness. Oh, and there was that desire to throw him down on the desk and fuck him into unconsciousness, but Brad Crawford didn't respond to such base instincts. Usually.

"We either nab the boy soon, tonight, preferably, or we book plane tickets," Yohji said calmly.

Crawford blinked. "Just like that?"

"Hasn't all this been just like that?" Yohji asked. "The pace has been ludicrous. We're collecting evidence like nobody's business, but we already know who the boy is and what he does. Everything else is just to fill the gap while we work out what to do with the confirmation we received the first day."

"Which was only the day before yesterday," Crawford pointed out with a tired sigh. "We rushed this. No wonder we screwed up."

"We screwed up?" Yohji laughed. "I was hired by the son of a leading politician to find a boy who is legally dead, but happens to be not only alive and well but also working undercover in a flowershop as a second identity to hide the fact he works as a vigilante assassin for his uncle, fighting another group of assassins working for his father, one of whom was assigned to me so I could be shot when things went wrong. How much more screwed up could we make this situation?"

Crawford laughed. "Well, when you put it like that..." He smiled and shook his head. If Yohji could find humour in their situation, so could he. What was the saying? 'Worse things happen at sea'. Now that was a thought. "Why don't you go and get those photos you took the other day while fid some archive recordings of Shuichi Takatori?" he suggested lightly. "Tonight we'll go and pick up the tape under cover of darkness."

"What'll we do with all this stuff?" Yohji asked. "What's the point?"

"Well, Reiji would be grateful," Crawford mused. "He might intercede on our behalf if we withhold the information. We've got a lot on Kritiker, and even though some is obsolete already it still ought to be of some use to him."

"Fair enough," Yohji sighed. "We could always sell it to a tabloid."

"That too."

They stared at each other for a second. Crawford stepped in slowly, chest tight, but suddenly Yohji had moved, sweeping up his coat and breezing through the door with a waved goodbye. He huffed in frustration and retrieved his own coat from the desk. Putting the VCR back in its drawer and frowned at the screen in indecision. The office was closed, he decided, they wouldn't notice.

He had Pacific Cruise tickets to book.


	8. Chapter Seven

**Chapter Seven**

Yohji approached the flower shop with as much stealth as he could muster. Sitting in his car at the end of the road, Crawford watched the younger man just disappear. Occasionally a flick of shadow would dart around a streetlight or a flap of coat would catch the faint moonlight. Crawford watched him intently, but he lost him in the deepening gloom. By the time he found him again he was strolling down the road, no longer making an effort. Crawford scowled at the cocksure young man. Even though he couldn't have seen the American, Yohji stuck his tongue out at the car whimsically.

Yohji climbed back into the warm car with his hat cocked and hair slightly mussed. Crawford smiled and rolled his eyes. As Yohji twisted in the seat to face him he reached out with one hand to just pluck at Crawford's coat, even though he already had the older man's attention. It was a contemplative action, like playing with his hat. His lips were still damp from when he'd stuck his tongue out.

"I take it they're gone?" Crawford asked softly.

"Best to come back tomorrow and ask around. The fans probably know more than we do right now," Yohji said.

"It's strange to think of florists with fans," Crawford smiled.

"You've seen those guys," Yohji pointed out. He snorted a short laugh. "While I was there one of those fangirls told me I ought to be working there, with my looks." He tipped his hat and tilted his chin, pouting like a model and posing awkwardly in the confined space of the car. 

"You look better when you smile," Crawford told him. "Otherwise, I think I might have to agree with those prepubescent adolescents."

Yohji turned to stare at him. Crawford settled his hands on the wheel with a self-satisfied smirk and made a point of not looking at Yohji as he pulled away and out into the Tokyo night.

"You think I'm pretty," Yohji crowed eventually, once he'd recovered his equilibrium, upset not only by Crawford's comment but also the movement of the car, which had sent him falling off the seat with a distinct lack of grace, all elbows and knees.

"Yes," Crawford replied shortly, earning himself even more stunned looks. He glanced across at his passenger as he drove, and found Yohji studying his reflection intently in his window, tugging on loose strands of hair. "You know perfectly well that you are," Crawford added. A second glance informed him that the smile had faded, and Yohji was leaning with his forehead against the glass.

His moods, Crawford reflected, were almost as volatile as Schuldig's. He'd have to learn what buttons to press, and what lines not to cross. Of course, giving up alcohol probably wasn't helping the mood swings. Withdrawal. Probably.

He pulled up in front of the motel they'd visited previously. Crawford glanced at the melancholy Yohji, the pretty Yohji, and smiled at his own plan. Weiss had cleared out. Hirofumi would kill Yohji anyway, and Crawford had come to the conclusion that he'd probably be killed as well, if not by Hirofumi then by someone else in the not to distant future. Hazard of the trade, and a trade Crawford had never dreamt of taking up.

"Can you get my-" think fast "-gun out of the trunk, Yohji? I'll go and get the rooms."

"Gun?" Yohji frowned.

"I'd rather not leave it out here," Crawford said firmly. Of course, the gun Yohji was thinking of was tucked into its holster, as usual, but he did have another, thankfully. It was the only thing in the damn trunk, and Crawford couldn't think of any other stalling method.

He moved quickly anyway. Mito was slumped across the counter again, a foreign porn magazine displayed in front of him. Crawford tried not to wince as he slapped several thousand yen on the counter.

"When my friend comes in, tell him you only have double rooms. Not even any twins," Crawford commanded.

Mito leered at him, and the money disappeared.

Yohji slunk into the lobby, shoulders hunched to hide the strange way his coat swung with the Magnum weighing down the left pocket and no bottle counterweight. His hat was pulled down over his ears again. That miserable look was back.

Yohji frowned at Crawford standing by the counter. That man ran hot and cold and then wondered why Yohji distanced himself? Everything was happening too fast. He'd said so that morning. If it was sex he wanted, they'd have had it by now. If he really held him in that kind of contempt he'd have abandoned him at the Koneko the other night. If he liked him, well, that would just be a bit weird. Crawford wasn't the type to just 'like' someone.

So Yohji was confused, and if working out Crawford's feelings weren't enough, his own had decided to stage a revolt as well. Lust and resentment and hurt and respect and something stirred that he'd thought he'd never feel and again and had hoped he wouldn't either. Feeling vulnerable, he hunched his shoulders tighter and sidled up to the desk, wishing for a bottle of anything to give him the strength to deal with this.

"Two singles," Crawford told Mito. "This time?"

Mito shook his head. "Sorry, no singles."

Crawford looked like he wanted to argue, but bit it back with a grunt of frustration. Yohji wondered if he'd ever shot someone for not giving him what he wanted. Probably.

"Fine, twin," Crawford snarled.

"Nope. All those are gone. It's double or nothing," he said with a broad smile.

Yohji's eyes widened. He ducked his head before Crawford noticed, and pulled up his collar to hide the battle he was having with his mouth muscles.

"That's not good enough," Crawford said bluntly.

"Double or Nothing," Mito said again, very clearly.

Crawford looked at Yohji in what the Japanese man now knew to be feigned exasperation. "I don't have enough on me for two doubles," he said.

"I've never shrunk from sharing," Yohji managed.

With a very heavy sigh Crawford slapped another fistful of bills on the counter. "We're never coming here again," he declared, snatching the key from dirty fingers and hastily beating a retreat towards the stairs.

As Yohji followed the American, occasionally offering directions, he wondered whether to tell Crawford that he knew perfectly well what he'd asked Mito to do. Probably shouldn't mention that Mito would do it for free, and sometimes without even being asked. He knew Crawford well enough to know he'd bribed the boy.

Yohji stared at the Armani covered rear and came to a decision.

"I know what you did," he said as Crawford unlocked their room. "I've done it myself plenty of times."

"What are you on about?" Crawford asked distractedly.

"'Double or Nothing'. It's the code," Yohji explained patiently. "And I'm flattered, I think, but..."

"Always 'but'," Crawford sighed, turning to look at him. "Are you really flattered, or just disturbed?"

"Flattered," Yohji said sincerely. "I'm just dealing with rather too much right now to even consider adding this."

"Tell me what you're dealing with," Crawford said suddenly, sitting on the bed and pulling his shoes off. "You at least owe me that much."

"I owe you nothing," Yohji said stiffly. "You did this off your own bat."

"You owe me as a friend," Crawford said firmly.

"And what does 'friend' mean to you?" Yohji asked. "If Hirofumi your friend? Are your colleagues your friends? Have you ever been out for a casual drink with someone, or chatted about sports, or women, or what's on television, or, or..."

"Not for a while," Crawford said softly, "but I think it's fair to say it's been a long time since you've ever had a friend like that either."

Yohji sagged, and stumbled over to the bed. "I want a drink," he said.

Brad reached out and ran a hand over wavy hair. The hat had tumbled off somewhere on the floor and Yohji shed the coat as he crawled properly on to the bed. Brad shifted to accommodate him. He let himself fall back and stare at the ceiling.

"I can't have a drink," Yohji said, and for a moment Brad thought he was talking to himself, "but I do want a friend."

"So tell me why you've been on the brink of collapse since the day I met you," Crawford said, moving back to sit next to Yohji's head. Yohji tugged on the back of his jacket and he lay down.

"Asuka," Yohji said easily. "And everything else that was destroyed when she left me. My confidence. My dreams. My life, really, in any coherent form. Lost my apartment, my income, my contacts and my friends. She was my best friend, but the way I fell apart meant no one else wanted to know me afterwards anyway."

"Is that it?" Crawford frowned. "Everyone goes through a tough break up at some point."

"Most people don't have their lives turned upside down by assassins and politicians and long lost florists," Yohji pointed out. "I was fine until you arrived. Now I'm having to get my head around whole new aspects to my sexuality, which I'd been quite happy ignoring, thank you very much. I'm quitting on my childhood dream because you made me see that only an idealistic idiot would cling to child's play that long. As you point out, everyone goes through a bad break up at some point, and a lot of people don't have any family, and few friends, and have to quit drinking, and go through identity crises, and." He stopped. He didn't trail off, and he didn't halt abruptly. He just stopped as though he hadn't; it was just Brad couldn't hear the rest. "You made me realise that I have to grow up," he said eventually, beginning with that same disjointed continuity.

"You are a deeply odd man," Brad said.

Yohji turned his head to look at him. "And that coming from the international gay psychic assassin." He grinned lopsidedly.

"Feel better for ranting?" Brad asked mildly.

_No_, Yohji though. "Yeah, sure," Yohji said.

"We should listen to what we got, if anything," Brad said uncertainly, sitting up and shifting towards the edge of the bed. Yohji had his eyes closed.

"Yeah," Yohji grunted when he realised Brad wanted a response.

"Don't fall asleep on me," Brad frowned.

"I generally do that _after_ sex," Yohji said. Brad glanced back at him, and smirked when he saw that Yohji's eyes were still shut. 

He climbed off the edge of the bed and stumbled to the cabinet set against the wall. After a moments search he uncovered a cheap television and an old stereo with a broken CD player. A stack of unlabelled videos wobbled dangerously, but Brad steadied them without apparently noticing they were there at all. Yohji watched and thought about phone numbers and pretending to be drunk.

There was a click, a whirr, a slow buzz and then Yohji spotted a flaw in their plan.

"There's twenty four hours on there," he said. "If it's twenty four hours of silence that's all we're going to be listening to."

"It's got a sensor in the bug," Brad said. "It only starts recording when there's sound. We might miss the beginnings of a few words, but we shouldn't miss the end of anything. Thirty second delay after the last sound."

"It'd be really irritating if there was a tap dripping," Yohji observed. 

Muffled sounds could be heard on the tape. Feet on stairs. Muted shouting. Solemn footsteps. Then hurried sounds, people running around, someone making a phone call, and a door opening. Suddenly it all got a lot louder, and voices were distinguishable.

Male voice 1: You don't suppose there's a chance he didn't get in?

Male voice 2: We can't risk it.

Male voice 1: I wasn't going to, O-

Male voice 2: No names! If he's been down here he's probably bugged it.

Male voice 1: I knew I didn't like that guy, the minute he came into the shop.

Male voice 2: That was jealousy, K- uh.

Male voice 1: We should probably leave this to the experts, huh?

Male voice 2: I guess so, or at least until we've had some sleep. I'm just not with it right now. It was all so surreal back in the shop.

Male voice 1: I'm going to miss this place, you know. No choice about telling Kritiker, I guess.

Male voice 2: We've been compromised. It's too dangerous to stay. No chance to even say goodbye, probably.

Male voice 1: You sound so sad. Come here.

Male Voice 2: I've been here so long. It's home. The shop, my room, _your_ room...

Male voice 1: Hint taken.

The voices faded into footsteps and a closing door. Brad paused the tape.

"I didn't really spot anything of use there," Yohji said. "I suppose we've got confirmation that they're definitely working for Kritiker."

"You know their voices better than I do. Any guesses on who those two were?" Brad asked.

"The kid we want, called Omi by the others, and I'm guessing the other was that brunette who kept evilling me while I was buying flowers. They're definitely attached."

Brad glanced over sharply. "That was wistful," he accused.

"I can be wistful," Yohji shot back. "I can be regretful, too, and jealous. See me do jealous," he pulled a face. Brad laughed. Back on went the tape, for another exchange.

Male voice 3: Hn.

Omi: Abyssinian, you take the settee and the centre of the room, Siberian, over at the back. I'll do around the stairs and the computer terminal. I'd be honestly surprised if there wasn't a bug here.

Male voice 2: I guess we keep talking to a minimum, huh?

Omi: Yes, Siberian. Anything we have to say we'll write down.

Siberian: What about the camera?

Omi: I've checked it, nothing on the tape, but it was definitely disabled for some period of time. The shot switches abruptly from the stairs to the opposite side of the room.

Abyssinian: They could have hooked into the feed.

Omi: I checked that too. It's disconnected at the moment anyway. Come on, let's see if we can get this done before Manx has to bring in the scanning equipment.

This was followed by sounds of movement: furniture moved, footsteps, occasional grunts. Crawford sighed. 

"I hope they didn't look for too long. We could end up spending the next two hours listening to them perspire."

"Joy," Yohji agreed.

"Do you know what the codenames are based on?" Crawford asked, seeking to amuse himself.

Yohji shrugged. "Places? I know where Siberia is, but I couldn't find Abyssinia without a map."

"Cat breeds," Crawford said smugly. "They've been named after cat breeds."

Yohji shrugged. "I can think of worse. I always liked cats." Crawford looked a bit deflated. "What are your codenames?" Yohji asked.

"They're related to our talents, for the most part," Crawford said.

The tape continued to issue sounds of futile work. "Let me guess," Yohji grinned. Crawford motioned his consent. "Seer." Shaken head. "Oracle." Reluctant nod. "That was a boring game." Firmer nod.

"I hope we get some sleep tonight," Crawford sighed. "Honestly, couldn't they just work in silence?"

"I thought you didn't want to sleep?" Yohji asked, voice brittle. Crawford frowned at him.

"You're very mercurial tonight," Crawford said softly. "Can't you just be flattered?"

"I am."

"As you said earlier. Is this really too much to handle? It's just sex."

Yohji frowned at him. "That's always been my line. Funny."

"Not really, no."

"No."

Yohji was saved from further conversation as the voices on the tape began again.

Female Voice: Who's down here?

Omi: Myself, Siberian and Abyssinian. We're doing a manual check for bugs.

Female voice: I see. Would you come up here please? I want to discuss your new quarters.

There were footsteps on the stair and a door closed with dull finality. Crawford hit the stop button on the tape. Yohji frowned at him.

"How long have we known each other?" Crawford asked.

"Three days," Yohji said.

"And we've been in each other's company almost all of the time. Seventy-two hours. If you take sleeping from that, which we haven't really done much of, that leaves us with about sixty-five hours. Other than that we've been out of contact for maybe three hours overall?"

"Something like that," Yohji said cautiously.

"Sixty-two hours. Now, consider if we both had office jobs, and had met at work.  Eight hours a day? That's just under eight working days. Though we would have actually had to work, so cut that down to maybe two hours a day of actually spending time together. Thirty one days."

"So we've known each other for a month. Nice try," Yohji said coolly. "So you're not taking this fast at all, oh no."

Crawford grimaced. "I'm trying to make you see this from my point of view."

"I know your point of view! In a few days I'll be dead and you'll be back with all those Takatoris," Yohji snapped, sitting up sharply. "You just want a few quick fucks. Well, it turns out that I don't like being on the receiving end of this kind of treatment. Thank you for teaching me the important life lesson of treating other people well." The sarcasm was coming thick and fast and it made Crawford sneer. "I'm going to get killed, Crawford. I don't give a flying fuck about your wants right now. I just want to know why suddenly I care about dying. I haven't for years!"

Crawford regretted impressing the inevitability of Yohji's imminent death on him. He hadn't foreseen this.

"Turn the tape back on," Yohji said, "and take notes. I'm going downstairs to demand another room. Which you will pay for," he added.

The door slammed hard and Crawford felt the resulting breeze ruffle his hair. His gift only gave him insight into the next few minutes, so when something he'd said days ago came back to bite him on the arse there wasn't anything he could do to prevent it.


	9. Chapter Eight

**Chapter Eight**

Crawford asked the sleepy-eyed girl at the desk about Yohji. She tried to give him details, and found herself pinned to the wall. Crawford didn't want to know what he was _missing_, he wanted to know where Yohji _was_. _Understand_?

It would be nice if the place's bookkeeping had some kind of rational order to it, even better if names were taken rather than just marking which room were full. Crawford contemplated going around and knocking on each door in turn, but rationality interrupted and he decided he'd got a better chance of finding Kudoh at his office. Even if it was a three hour walk away. A three hour walk Crawford found himself making, since Kudoh had apparently decided to drive. In Crawford's car.

It rained.

Yohji slipped another sheet of paper into his typewriter. He was very attached to that machine.  It sounded right. It smelt right. It looked tatty and old and rusting and greasy. It looked _right_.

Crawford could go and shove his shiny multifunctional swish computers up his Armani clad behind.

Computers hummed. That was what irritated Yohji the most. A typewriter could be trusted to sit silently. And the keys were too quiet on a computer. How was someone meant to know that you were working if they couldn't hear you from the next room? So what if when you made a mistake you could correct it without rewriting the entire document? At least with a typewriter you didn't have to worry about several pages you'd already written just disappearing.

"'While the evidence is not one hundred percent conclusive, if Takatori Mamoru did survive where the media claimed he didn't, Tsukiyono Omi would be a prime suspect for his new persona.'" he read back to himself. "'The boy is the correct age and shares the pigmentation of the missing child in aspects of hair, eyes and skin.'"

Photographs were scattered across the desk, the video was sealed in an envelope and the report didn't seem to have any obvious spelling or grammatical errors. Still, he needed to know what else was on that tape. Which meant waiting for Crawford to turn up. Yohji's hand moved to the bottom drawer at that thought.

Glass crunched and Yohji looked up.

"I thought you weren't going to drink any more," Crawford said. He took off his glasses to shake water from them, and glowered at Yohji. Well, squinted. Yohji smirked.

"I'm not. Looking for a stapler," he lied smoothly.

"May I look at your summary?" Crawford asked.

"Was there anything else on the tapes that I ought to add?" Yohji asked first, leaning on the paper.

"Not really, no. I suppose you could say that Kritiker clearly has access to specialists in a variety of fields, but considering their head it's hardly surprising." Crawford pulled the paper out from under Yohji's elbows and frowned. "Why English?"

"American typewriter," Yohji explained. "I'm actually better with the English than the Romanised Japanese. Comes from reading all those books in the language they were written in. The Maltese Falcon lost a certain something in translation."

"I was eight when I read the Maltese Falcon," Crawford commented. "I spent the month after that wearing my father's longest coat and wandering around with a plastic gun and a glass bottle full of cola flavoured Kool-Aid watered down to look like Bourbon. I thought that was going to be my life." 

"So?" Yohji spat.

Crawford sighed and turned to the sheets of paper. As he skimmed through the brief report he noticed something. "'Our research suggests that Tsukiyono Omi is a member of the terrorist organisation Weiss, who in turn are controlled by a much larger vigilante operation that we believe to go under the name of Kritiker'" he read. "Why don't you mention Takatori Shuichi?"

"Because I've had it up to here with family feuds and shameless killers," Yohji said bluntly. "Takatoris everywhere hiring people to kill each other, hiring each other to kill each other. It's too fucking screwed up for me."

Crawford inwardly agreed. "Hirofumi won't appreciate you hiding information from him."

"He's going to kill me anyway," Yohji said. "Who gives a fuck?"

"You've become very abrasive since last night," Crawford observed in the voice he usually reserved for Schuldig's worse moods. "I suppose you're still against the idea of dying."

Yohji shrugged irritably. Who did this man think he was, walking in here and ruining his life? Nothing could ever be the same, and he wouldn't even get a chance to get used to the changes.

"Do you think Kritiker would take me in?" he asked suddenly.

"You trust me," Crawford managed incredulously.

"Yeah." Yohji tipped his chair back against the wall. He'd 'borrowed' it from downstairs. They'd get it back soon enough. "You don't want to kill me any more. I guess there's some merit to your bullshit about relative times, and stuff. Three days ago you were itching to shoot me, and now I'm so perfectly confident you won't that I'm asking you if you think your enemy will take me in. So yes, I trust you."

"You trust me." That had been an odd speech. Sincere, but full of resentment. Tone didn't quite match contents. Like Yohji, in a way.

"Yes. I even like you."

"I know that," Crawford said dismissively. "You always did. Deeply irritating. I don't need hate to hate, or ignorance to kill. I don't think of people as cardboard cut outs to simply resent. I can kill someone I'm fully aware is a living, thinking person, with connections and friends and family, even if I'm included in those friends. But you? No."

Yohji wasn't impressed by this.

"You destroyed my life," Yohji told Crawford. "And you're still trying to get into my pants."

"I didn't destroy your life."

"Why do you want to screw me so badly that you'll risk your life to do so?"

"I'm attracted to you. I'm infuriated by you. I find, when I think about it, that I want to be you. I want your life, Kudoh Yohji. I'm jealous."

"You're welcome to it," Yohji said bitterly. "Though I don't know what you think you can do with it that I couldn't."

"I can live it," Crawford said firmly. "I want to wear the stupid hat and the daft trench coat. I want real Bourbon in my pocket and a real gun in my belt. I want to help people who don't deserve help, befriend people who don't deserve friends and kill people who do deserve death. I want the dirty office with the bimbo secretary. I'm not going to screw it up with drink and smoke and women. I'm going to do it right, like you meant to."

"If I disgust you so much, why do you want to sleep with me?"

Yohji closed his eyes. He couldn't blame Crawford for shattering his dreams. They'd been shattered for years. Crawford had just made him realises that he had to stop trying to pick up the pieces. Asuka wasn't coming back. Clients weren't going to start breaking down the door. No one was going to offer him a rent-free apartment. The shattered pieces of his life were like shards of glass inside him, ripping him to shreds. He'd thought the only way to stop the pain would be to put them back together and seal those broken edges. Alcohol didn't soften the slicing sides, cigarettes wouldn't burn the corners away, and sex didn't so much as blunt those splinters.

Crawford had shown him that the best way to stop the pain was to abandon those pieces altogether. Throw them out. He'd be left with a huge gaping hole, but that had to be better than the pain, right? Most people must have that hole. In this world it seemed like no one got to live his or her dreams. He'd been lucky.

"You know, I'm sure LA could use a private eye, especially one with experience in he paranormal and international contacts."

"Good for you," Yohji said dully. "Go live my dream."

"I thought you said it was always easier with a partner."

"I thought you implied you preferred to work alone."

"I think you've changed my mind."

Yohji sighed. He knew damn well what Crawford was getting it, had done from the first words. But he'd made his decision. He'd cast out the shards already. And besides, he wasn't sure he liked the idea of leaving Japan for a country with someone who was still, basically, a stranger, with no money and no where to stay and no contacts and absolutely nothing to fall back on when he got there, and not even a visa. He told Crawford as much.

"I thought you said you didn't want to die."

The man had a point.

"So he made certain they shared a double room?"

"Asked specifically for it."

"And about Tsukiyono - Have Weiss definitely left?"

"They've got a van now. They'll never have a fixed location again."

"Through their meddling?"

"Yes."

"Thank you, Juredehi."

"It's pronounced 'Schuldig'."

"That's what I said. Be ready to leave in one hour."

The red head rolled his eyes. Brad had such fucking awful taste in men.

Things were awkward. Before there had been tension. He'd been able to slam Yohji into walls and use power to arouse him. He'd had excuses to kiss him and keep bodily contact with him. He'd been able to act sensitive and soothe Yohji's ego. But now? No. He was just sitting on a desk trying to find some excuse to be sitting on Yohji's lap. Yohji clearly wasn't in any kind of mood to have sex.

He'd killed it last night, Crawford realised ruefully. He'd pushed too hard and now Yohji was pushing back stubbornly.

The ball was in Yohji's court. Yohji's court had recently been undergoing strange interdimensional warping, so not many games were going on right now. Crawford had no idea how to convince him to try and seduce Crawford.

It was so damn frustrating!

"If we work together, we can't have casual sex," Yohji said slowly.

Well, at least he was _thinking_ about it, Crawford consoled himself.

"Why not?"

"Because I only have casual sex with people I'm never going to see again. I don't trust people easily, not after Asuka left me."

They weren't men who could talk their way into sex. What Crawford wouldn't give for Weiss to burst through the door. They needed action. Something to get the blood pumping and adrenaline running and then they'd be at it on the desk, fired by danger and triumph and by the time it was over they'd be too exhausted to have any regrets.

"I still don't understand what you want. If it was just sex, we'd have had it already," Yohji said firmly.

Crawford frowned. "Why do you say that?"

"Because it's true."

"I wasn't even certain I wanted to have sex with you at first. I wanted to kill you," Crawford pointed out.

"Exactly. What changed your mind?"

"You did."

Yohji rolled his eyes. "Sure, it's that simple."

"It is. You persevered in your efforts to befriend me."

"No I didn't. I gave up," Yohji snapped. "And I was only trying to make things easier on myself to start with."

"Oh, quite being such a martyr. What do you want me to say, that I suddenly realised you were my one twu luv and we were destined to be together?" He frowned at the look on Yohji's face. "Oh, you didn't actually, did you?" he laughed. "Hirofumi said you were a sentimentalist, but you'd given me the impression you had at least some semblance of rationality."

"Of course I don't expect you to be in love with me," Yohji said too quickly. "It's only been three days."

"Exactly."

"Precisely."

God, could this get any worse? They both wanted sex, Yohji was certain. And they did like each other. It was just society, leading him to expect that had to be something else in the mix. Yohji really hated 'society'. Okay, so what if he wasn't okay with casual sex right now? It was hardly going to be casual, Yohji reassured himself, not after all this. If he could make Crawford turn from blind hatred to genuine amiability in three days just think what he could achieve by the end of the week. Hell, they might even get to know each other!

Actually, Yohji realised, he did know Crawford quite well. He knew that challenging him tended to have quite immediate affects and that danger tended to make both of them a bit horny.

"You trust me," Crawford tried again.

"I don't trust you once we start earning money," Yohji threw himself into his plan with gusto. If it didn't work he'd have screwed up so badly he'd never see Crawford again anyway.

"I'm not _that_ shallow," Crawford felt himself getting irritated.

"Why do you sleep with Hirofumi? Power. Power is money."

"Power is power," Crawford snapped. "I like power."

"More than you could like me."

"What about you? Why should I trust you? You're twenty-two. Hardly an age to settle down at."

"Settle down? No, no intention of that," Yohji laughed.

"Exactly. And you're afraid that_ I'll _leave _you_."

"We've only known each other for three days! I barely know you."

"You've put your life in my hands several times."

"I haven't put my heart in your hands"

"It's just sex. You of all people know that sex is just sex."

"What is that meant to mean?"

"It's meant to mean you're a slut," Crawford snarled bluntly. "You'd have screwed that strange in the club, wouldn't you? And that girl at the wedding. And any one of Weiss."

"Maybe I would. Maybe you're feeling insecure, because you know I'd screw any one of them and I'm not laying a finger on you."

"Insecure? I could have any person in this city. I'm sleeping with the future president's son!"

"Who's going to kill you for thinking outside the box."

"He couldn't touch me," Crawford sneered.

"I could take you," Yohji scoffed.

"I'd like to see you try." And he did, giving him time to jump off the desk as Yohji made the first lunge, launching himself off of the chair.

Crawford found himself backed against the wall as Yohji vaulted over the desk and charged into him. Crawford stepped sideways but Yohji was fast, spinning on his heel and swing a fist wildly. Crawford took it and rolled with it, kicking out to knock the unbalanced Yohji to the floor. Yohji scissored his legs and Crawford found himself collapsing into the wall. Yohji rolled, but in trying to get up he slammed his head into the bottom of the desk. Crawford lunged, but Yohji rolled again and managed to make it upright this time, clinging to the plant. For a second Crawford spared a thought for the idea that Yohji might have hurt his head seriously, but instinct kicked in and he tried to do the same to Yohji's head.

He could foresee Yohji ducking each time, moving, but he didn't have time to pull each kick. He groaned in frustration and switched to punches, boxing being his preferred form of fighting. Yohji found himself being pummelled back against the wall, taking sharp hits to the chest and abdomen.

He tucked one leg behind him against the wall and pushed, hard, slamming himself into Crawford and forcing him backwards against the desk. Crawford flinched as the sharp edge jammed against his lower back. Yohji kept pushing until they were horizontal, and those long arms reached over and swept everything from the desk, even giving the typewriter a harsh shove, and those long legs kicked against the floor and then they were lying on the desk, Yohji propped on top of Crawford and breathing heavily.

"I can take you," Yohji smirked, and kissed him hard.

Crawford writhed ineffectually. Yohji straddled him, pinning him effortlessly to the desk. For Crawford it ought to be a point of pride to be on top, but it didn't seem quite so important now. As Yohji unbuttoned his shirt and pushed away his jacket Crawford slid his hands under Yohji's tight t-shirt and forced Yohji to cease his ministrations long enough to pull it over his head.

Yohji ground Crawford's hips against the desk. Hands were grabbing at his nipples, finally finding them long enough to make Yohji moan. Yohji curved over for a savage kiss, lifting his hips away enough for Crawford to grasp desperately at the waistline and work on getting the tight leather off the tight arse. His hands explored the firm muscle as Yohji's mouth moved down his torso.

Crawford lifted his hips from the desk and tried to wiggle out of his own trousers, but there was too much Yohji everywhere. He needed those trousers off. He could see Yohji's arousal. He wanted it. 

"My pants," he groaned. "Help."

Yohji pulled away from him for a moment, looking down with distinct amusement. His own trousers were in danger of climbing back up with his legs spread so far apart. With nimble fingers he undid Crawford's trousers. He leant backwards, arching his back, giving Crawford a beautiful look at everything Yohji, and grabbed the legs of the smart black trousers and _yanked_. The friction made Crawford gasp, burning down his thighs.

Yohji found himself with a dilemma. He wanted Crawford legs over his shoulders, that would be most comfortable here, but damn it if he wasn't pinning them down with his own. The desk wasn't wide enough for much manoeuvrability. Crawford picked up on this and decided it was an opportune moment to display his own flexibility, some how extracting his legs and wrapping them around Yohji's waist. Yohji was impressed.

Crawford's jacket was still spread across the desk, and Yohji dipped into an inside pocket to produce a neat wallet. Crawford meant to snap, but he remembered Yohji's boasts about going through his clothes already. Inside the wallet were a few condoms and a discrete tube of lubricant, which made Yohji smirk. Crawford just glowered up at him, so Yohji reached down and removed the glasses, turning it from glare to squint, and leant down for a long kiss.

Yohji was not long in preparing, and Crawford was experienced enough that he didn't need much either. Yohji's fingers hovered hesitantly, and Crawford wondered what it would be like to have the long slim digits inside him, but he had more pressing needs right now. He wanted relief immediately. He crossed his legs behind Yohji's back and squeezed encouragingly. 

Position, press, push, position, thrust. Thrust. Yohji leant over Crawford, one hand on the desk to keep himself from collapsing entirely. Crawford's back was arched awkwardly, hips lifted off the desk. He unhooked his legs from Yohji's back and pressed his feet to the corners of the desk for better leverage, toes curling over the edge, tightening with each sharp thrust. Yohji's other hand went roaming, eventually locating Crawford's own, which was pumping hard on his cock. They pumped together, thrust and bucked together, came together.

"I took you," Yohji gloated breathlessly as he collapsed bonelessly over Crawford, trousers still wrapped tightly around his knees. He kicked weakly. Crawford laughed, managing to convince one foot to detach itself from the desk and push Yohji's trousers down to around ankle level. A little more kicking and they joined Crawford's on the floor.

"Nngh," Crawford said firmly. Yohji shifted sideways slightly, but a narrow desk didn't give them enough space to do anything over than drape over each other. Sweaty and sticky and slimy, they fell asleep.


	10. Epilogue

Epilogue 

The broken light held his attention for a brief second as he cast his gaze around the room. It was a strange thing to leave broken, this glass and wire contraption. The remains of the bulb crunched underfoot as he approached the scratched desk.

The shot was loud enough to attract the attention of everyone in the building, even with the silencer, but there was no one in the building who wasn't involved.

Crawford woke up deafened. He blinked over at Yohji, who was clutching his handgun tightly and leaning over him to aim at the doorway. There was a thud. Crawford looked over and smirked at the betrayal on the man's face.

"Hirofumi," Crawford observed, still unable to hear his own voice.

The politician's son collapsed face down in the remains of the long broken light bulb. Yohji looked a bit taken aback and stared at the hot metal in his hand.

"Proactive defence," he said.

"You keep weird bedfellows," a nasal voice observed.

"Always," Crawford sat up. 

Schuldig grimaced at him. "And you don't even have time for a shower."

"Fetch me a damp cloth from the bathroom down the hall," Crawford commanded. "Yohji, give me back my gun. Do you have a passport?"

Yohji nodded, eyes shining.

"We're going to America."

"The minute they find out about this they'll check the airports. My passport's under my name. By the time we reach America they'll have made that one phone call and we'll be caught." Yohji dressed as he spoke, stripping off the used condom with dark amusement. Crawford caught his look.

"Next time we'll clean up," he shrugged. "You're basically packed, yes?"

"In that I live out of my suitcase? Definitely."

Schuldig reappeared with the cloth and Crawford cleaned himself off. He tossed it to Yohji, who did the same. Schuldig leered at the blond, who winked at him. Crawford smirked at their interaction. 

"When Ouka died I just got beaten with a golf club. You don't have to run," Schuldig said.

"Yohji does," Crawford told him. "And besides, I want to. I have plans." He frowned. "When did you kill Ouka?"

"Yesterday. And it was Farf who killed her, so not actually my fault." It did explain the bruises on Schuldig's face, and the look of wounded pride he wore. "You'll still be drawing from your private account, then?" he asked. "I'll tell Nagi to make sure that one stays open." Schulgi frowned. "Wait, does this mean I'm in charge of Schwarz now?"

Crawford suppressed a shudder. "I suppose so," he admitted. He picked up the report and evidence from the floor and studied it thoughtfully before putting the handful of libel into Yohji's suitcase. They shared a look. 

"This won't work," Yohji sighed. "We'll be arrested."

Crawford held up a pair of tickets. "What kind of fleeing criminals take a boat?" he smirked.

"Cruise? That'll take months!" Yohji gaped, goggle-eyed.

 "Ought to cool the pursuit a little," Crawford laughed smugly. "Boat leaves in half an hour, so we'll have to move fast."

"And you said you couldn't see that far ahead," Yohji scolded.

"I can't, but I can still plan."

Weeks later, stretched out around a pool and planning their new business, though they'd yet to even pick a city, Crawford asked the question that had been bothering him for a while.

"What woke you?"

"What always did," Yohji shrugged, lifting up his shades for a better look at Crawford, who'd switched his normal glasses for prescription sunglasses as well. "The bulb. I used to replace that glass regularly, you know. Everyone stood on it, and it made a sharp noise against the wooden floor."

"Oh. Not bad."

"I thought so."

_A/N: This doesn't feel quite right as an epilogue, since the first part is still rather vital to the plot, but it bookends the fic quite nicely, having the prologue and epilogue begin with the same lines. Anyway, this is, probably, the final version. I need to email it by the third. If you spot any spelling mistakes, or grammatical errors, or anything that you really can't stand, please let me know! Oh, and because the link has disappeared in amongst all the editing, a 'cover' with the ubiquitous hat can be found here: http:_


End file.
